


Sojourn of the Bloodletters

by BloodylocksBathory



Series: Of Beasts and Fire [3]
Category: Jonah Hex (2010), The Lone Ranger (2013)
Genre: Anal, Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Character Turned Into Vampire, Explosions, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Vampires, manly creys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:32:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3438821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodylocksBathory/pseuds/BloodylocksBathory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burke reunites with Butch Cavendish and his gang once more for a trek North to steal cattle. On their journey, they cross paths with something inhuman, something that threatens to not only divide our "heroes" but destroy them from the inside. Can they resist temptation, or will they become a meal for their undead enemies?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invitation

In days such as these, when so much land stood between them at any time, Butch secretly wished he or Burke lived in one place. Burke had proved himself useful in the endeavors of the Cavendish gang, as had the gang been useful to him. Not only that, but Butch was beginning to miss the lanky tattooed bastard. Somehow Burke's lack of obnoxiousness made time in the gang's endeavors a little too quiet. Not knowing where the hell he resided at any period was not only inconvenient but... displeasing.

As the gang passed through familiar lands one morning, Butch led his men to one of their hideaways, specifically the old cabin. Part of the excursion was the maintain that the location was still secret, not disturbed by passersby. The other part was personal, though this was known only to Cavendish. The cabin had gained more personal significance over the past half year than it had in the decade or so since he first found it. With Burke, he had created memories there which, though unhappy, were important to the bond between them. He waited on horseback, keeping an eye on the landscape as his gang searched the property, and remembered.

Jésus exited the small building and brushed the dust off of his hat.

"Nothin'," he announced. "No one's eaten or slept in there for a long time. Not that I can see so well with the window blocked." He frowned at Skinny, who still peered in from outside.

"Ain't enough room to stay and rest," Butch remarked. "We keep movin'."

"Butch." Skinny pressed his open palms against a window as he looked through the glass pane. "There's a note in here."

Shooting Jésus an accusatory glare, Butch dismounted and skulked over to the cabin, leaning through the doorway to spy a folded piece of paper on the mattress. While the interior was coated thick with dust as always, the note itself held little. Picking it up, he noted the large R, written in what must have been a dreadful attempt at a venerable hand and unfolded the paper.

Within were the same pathetic excessive loops and swirls, but after much close and distant viewing, he managed to decipher the scribblings:

 

_Dear Sirs (and Madam)_

_The plesure of your company is required at the soonest possible conveniance. Bring your appropriete fellows as you see fit._

_Patrick Fitzgerald_

_C.O. The High Honorable Gerald Fitzpatrick, Junior_

_(esq.)_

_(the third)_

Butch rolled his eyes. Biggest idiot if he ever saw one... Turning over the note to the back, he saw a list of directions, realizing the rationale for the unnecessarily ornamental, infuriatingly cryptic penmanship.

The gang waited anxiously as their leader returned outside, pocketing the note as he stood on the decrepit porch. Thumbs hooked into the loops of his belt, Butch surveyed the landscape, remembering how the last time he had taken this view, the place was white with snow. With a tilt of his head, he looked down at his men.

"Looks like we got ourselves a job."

*

Two days later in a Colorado town, Burke was treating himself to a haircut. Though he regularly shaved his face and throat himself, always keeping his moko in view, his previous attempts at trimming his hair had always ended in disaster. Thank goodness for the bowler hat.

As the weather had gotten warmer and far more welcoming to spend time outdoors, Burke was seated on the barber's veranda, overlooking the main road of the town. He could easily be spotted by anyone passing through, which was fine by him. Certain company was expected by him, and he could use a few helping hands in his latest scheme. If they arrived, the plans for himself and the Cavendish gang would prove to not only make them wealthier men, but the adventure would be hell of a lot of fun, as long as the message he had left behind had been found, as well as understood. He hoped his clues had not been too cryptic... and that his writing had been understandable enough for Butch.

As the barber stepped away for whatever reason, Burke happened to look down at the main road. A burly figure had strode down the way, his face obscured from above by his hat. As he watched the man come to a stop below the veranda, a pair of footsteps approached him from behind, not those of the barber.

Burke's knife was up and behind his shoulder just as a revolver was lowered to his head. The hammer was pulled back with a click, warning him to go no further. He was not particularly surprised about this ambush. Waiting around in one place for any extended amount of time had its disadvantages.

Noting the gun in the corner of his vision, he turned his head for a better look as it was titled to the side. There on the stock was an engraved symbol. To his memory, it was the same symbol of a certain steel factory he had once worked for... and blown up. He felt his heart rate increase, hoping his assumption was right.

"The boss' been lookin' for you."

Sure enough, he recognized the voice behind him as well. Not moving his blade, he turned in his chair and looked up at Barret. The knife tip was gently pressed into the other man's belly, just nicking the threads of his waistcoat.

Burke smirked at him. "Am I to correctly assume that means yer boss is the same as last?"

"If he ain't, his boys are tits-deep in some serious shit," another voice called out from below.

Leaning forward, Burke looked down at the stout figure in the road who now looked up at him, face visible.

"Always a pleasure to hear your sparkling wit, Mr. Mundy."

Sy Mundy's smile shifted into a sneer and he looked toward the South end of town, waving to an unseen third party.

Rising from his chair, Burke checked himself in a mirror, put on his hat with a twirl of the (tattooed) wrist, and trotted down to the main road, noticing where his barber had gone off to. Alvirez had the unfortunate man pinned to the wall, knife ready to slit his throat.

"Nah, leave'im," the Irishman advised before tossing the frightened man a coin. "Good job, brother."

Joining with Mundy on the road, the small group headed South, steadily growing as more of the gang was passed by. First Ray, then Jésus, and so on until Burke was flanked by the whole gang, with the exception of their boss. Just as the town's buildings began to scatter and spread apart, the Irishman was led to a barn. As he had thought in his last reunion with Butch, he wondered if he was in the process of being taken to his execution. Their farewell had reflected the chilly weather of the season when they previously spent time together, but Cavendish had still thanked him, for the efforts of looking after the notorious cannibal at his most vulnerable, both physically and emotionally. Burke felt he understood more and more of his friend and lover as they continued to meet, but he fully knew that the both of them were men full of surprises.

Thanks to the returning warmth of the spring season, the smell of the damp hay within the barn was strong, filling Burke's nostrils. Bales of the stuff were stacked high, some nearly to the ceiling. No other creature resided in the structure besides human, unless Butch himself counted as another animal entirely.

At the far wall, sitting amidst the bales sat Butch, legs unceremoniously strewn as though he were king and the barn was his castle. Burke grinned, but the expression was not reciprocated. Hopping off his improvised throne, Cavendish brushed his dark coat free of straw and sauntered towards his tattooed friend.

"You better have good reason for this invitation," he said, his voice gruff and harsh as ever. He only came to a stop when he was inches away from Burke's illustrated face, lowering the volume of his words and he looked down at him. "Other'n just wanting to see me."

Burke's smile broadened into a toothy grin.

"Please," he replied, his voice just as quiet. "I always look after my chums."

Only Burke, close enough to see every detail of his friend's features, saw beyond the intimidating carriage and noticed the tiniest of twitches at the corners of Butch's mouth - an attempt not to smile. Burke wished he could pull the other into a kiss. Instead he turned around to face the gang, who were waiting to see the verdict on the Irish outlaw's return.

"Who missed me?" he loudly announced, arms out.

Most of the gang cheered an affirmative. Butch rolled his eyes as the Irishman was welcomed back into the group, far more warmly than he had last time. Biggest damn idiot... but Butch would be damned if he was not among them. He missed the dumb, inky little son of a bitch. Hopefully this supposedly profitable reunion mentioned in the note would be worth the trouble.

"It was you??" he heard Burke exclaim as Skinny raised his hand in response to a question about the note. "You found it? You clever little sack'a shite!"

Instantly Burke was pulling the young man into a bear hug and lifting him off the floor, spinning him as though entertaining a child. Skinny yelped in alarm while the rest of the gang laughed.

"Me next!" Frank cried excitedly.


	2. Trinkets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang is on its way to fortune and success, but first they make a little pit stop, where Burke reveals some of his past.

In the privacy of the barn, Burke explained his invitation to the Cavendish gang.

"Been workin' with ranchers, learnin' the ins and outs of cattle," he said. "Heard news of an incomin' trek of livestock. They're coming down from the Dakota and Montana Territories. We head North, we'll catch up with'em..."

"... and ever so considerately take the load off their hands for'em," Butch finished for him, catching onto the proposal.

"Smart lad," Burke replied. "Buyers are receivin' all matter of folk, so they'll not be the wiser if we show up... or if any of ye show up."

He addressed the remainder of the gang with his last statement. Some frowned at him, both defensively and in confusion.

"Why us?" Ray asked.

"Cuz' the lot of you assholes're less likely to be wanted by the law," Butch retorted.

Someone in the small crowd made a noise of sudden understanding. Burke thought it might have been Frank, but he was not sure. He turned to Cavendish, who gave away nothing in his pensive expression, staring up at the rafters.

"V'I done good?" Burke asked, voice low to hide his anticipation.

When Butch finally looked down at him, a smile just barely tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Maybe."

Burke licked his teeth, satisfied with the answer.

"Lovely. Shall we go?"

*

Burke seemed eager to leave the settlement, and considering how easily he had been found, the gang did not question his urgency. The town was small in the distance by the time they reached the peak of a rocky hill.

"Wait, stop for a moment," the tattooed outlaw said, dismounting his horse. "Trust me, it's important."

Curious, Butch jumped off of his mount as well, unknowing of the reason for the sudden respite, but having learned to trust his companion's proposals. Hand on hip, he watched as Burke casually adjusted the flank cinch of his horse's saddle, whistling. He was buying time, waiting for something.

"How long a moment do we stop?" the older man asked, not amused.

Burke was tempted to say "as long as it takes", but he knew he would promptly be dragged along. A less than ideal turn of events, especially when he wanted them to stay and see his big surprise.

"You'll see," he replied, trying to look innocent.

Fortunately for him, the gang did not have to wait much longer. From the distant town they heard a monstrous explosion and watched as one of the buildings burst open with flames and smoke. The horses flinched, though they did not bolt. Though the ground did not shake beneath their feet, the roaring detonation sent a tremor through the gang's collective heart.

The response of the townspeople was audible even at this distance. Somewhere a woman shrieked and an infant bawled. No longer acting a vision of innocence, Burke bared his teeth in a predatory grin, tipping his bowler to the explosion. That grin reminded Butch of why he kept the other man around, why he enjoyed his company and went through the trouble of meeting with him.

"Someone's gone through my old things without my permission. Naughty-naughty."

The gang whooped and hollered at the sight. Burke bowed his head, pretending a little humility, and turned to look at Butch, who smiled in approval. Entertaining the gang had been amusing, but his sweetheart was who this explosion had been for. He nearly chuckled. His "sweetheart" - a terribly droll little concept. If he were to ever call Butch by this endearment, above all in front of others, he would get a walloping.

Yet the smile from Cavendish confirmed Burke's hopeful suspicion: Butch had missed him while they were apart.

*

The gang traveled North to convene with any of the numerous cattle drivers, a journey that would take them days, possibly even a week. Thus far the only thing any of them were complaining about in their new job was the weather up North, still cold with the remnants of winter. They had to concede however that while a long voyage in the prairies and mountains would be rough, at least their excursion was not happening in the peak of August.

Two days into their travels, the group happened across a bazaar nearly ten miles from the next town over. Some merchants brought their travelling homes with them, while others brought little else but their goods, suggesting they lived within the ten miles, but nearly none of them spoke English as their birth language. A welcome assembly for their transient customers, in case lawmen came by asking questions. As such, the gang had a job to get to, so they kept their dubious behavior - not to mention underhanded coinless purchases - to a minimum. Though some lingered on certain trivialities, their travels would have to be light, and rudiments were key.

"No bustles, Frank," Barret muttered slyly as he walked passed his comrade. Frank scowled at him.

Butch and Burke walked side by side, casually perusing the vendors. As they passed by a table of wares presented by a pair of Swedes, Burke paused to take a closer look. What caught his eye specifically where the mouth organs, one gold and silver. He could not yet tell if it was gold plated, but it was glossy and shone in the afternoon sun like a musical gem. He leaned in to examine it and was tempted to play it, to hear its quality. As one of the merchants stepped forward to make a deal, Burke rebuffed and backed off, though his eyes lingered on the harmonica.

"Had one as a lad," he explained when he saw Butch's curious expression. "T'was a dull, dreadful boyhood, but I had my distractions."

"Dreadful?" Butch inquired, his attention ensnared.

"Ye remember Aoife? After she died, the homestead grew a little darker, a wee less cheerful... less than it already was. M'ma and da were even less patient with me after that."

Burke hardly looked bothered by the recollection, a calm facade over him as he explained his past.

"Tried to tie me down. Always go to church, always do me lessons, stop wrecking and breaking things..." he paused to give a playful smile and knowing glance to his friend. "Stop settin' things on fire..."

This time Butch was the one to smile. He could only imagine the sort of hell Burke raised as a boy. Had they been closer in age and grew up together... he would have likely still have been irritated by the other's obnoxiousness. Oh, well.

"How'd you deal with it?" he asked. His friend's smile broadened.

"Set the bloody house ablaze. Middle of the night, left it in the kitchen, made it look like a cooker accident." Hazel eyes crinkled in merriment at the memory of a little house he no longer called home going up in flames. "Lovely sight it was, lit up the skies better'n the moon and all the stars put together."

His reminiscing halted as Butch stopped at a table displaying barbed wire. Ignoring the Chinese man who tried to make some kind of bargain, the older outlaw exchanged money for several loops worth of the thorny metal cord.

"The one big regret when I did it though," he added as they proceeded onward, ready to rejoin with the gang. "I forgot my mouth organ. Oh, I loved playin' that thing. Up'n down, back'n forth..."

Cavendish's jagged lips curled into a roguish smile, his voice low. "That how ya got so good at suckin' cock?"

Burke did not miss a beat in the rhythm of their talk, responding loudly. "Course not, I _sucked cock_ to get good at suckin' cock!"

Earshot merchants who understood English gasped at the indecent declaration, prattling on to one another in their mother tongues. So much for being discreet regarding bad behavior.

Upon seeing the rest of the gang leaving for their horses, the pair joined them. A mile or two before passing the neighboring town, as dusk approached, Burke reached into his pocket, and Butch expected to see an absconded harmonica. Instead a pocket watch was produced.

"No souvenirs?" he asked as his friend checked the time. Burke smiled, unworried.

"Nah, it's fine. What would I do with it?"

They rode on and discussed no more of the matter, but the harmonica lingered in their thoughts for longer than either would have admitted.

*

Hours later, the bazaar was over, at least for another night. Merchants emptied their booths and stuffed their crates and wagons full of their unsold goods. Amongst the last of them, Swedish proprietor and his brother were loading their own wares with only a lantern to accompany them, passing the boxes onward between each other. Not even looking at the latter, the first brother was puzzled when the crate he held was not taken from him to load onto their wagon. Impatient, he looked up to demand an explanation and saw his sibling frozen in place, staring into the shadows beyond the perimeter of their lantern's light. A figure stood in the shadows, the only part of him within the light being a hand which aimed a revolver at them.

"Yer not closed just yet," a raspy voice said. "Open'em crates."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay and shit execution, it took me forever to get them out of that damn barn.


	3. Three Stupid Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconvening at the camp, our two heroes share some private time... and then things go to hell.

Burke was on the verge of pacing about the prairie like a tiger in a cage. Halfway to where the gang had presently set up camp, Butch had turned tail and run back where they came. Said something about forgetting something. Horse shite.

"Where is he?" the tattooed man asked of no one in particular, staring out into the dark panorama.

Jésus nearly laughed unsympathetically as he and Frank tended to dinner. "You haven't noticed he does whatever the hell pleases him?"

"Have some supper, Burke," Barret advised their transient partner. "Don't worry none, he'll be back."

Burke sighed, hating to wait. He wished he had someone to annoy. The gang perhaps, but it just was not the same. Giving one more glance back to the prairie, he begrudgingly retreated to the fire, grabbing a plate.

An hour later, just as the men were discussing turning in, the sound of galloping hooves signaled Butch's approach. Burke of course was the first to spring from his seat, beaming at his friend's arrival and hurrying to greet him. As the horse slowed to a halt, he took it by the bridle, holding the animal still as Butch dismounted.

"What kept ye?" he asked. Butch hardly looked his way.

"Unfinished business. Back in town."

Burke was not thrilled over the curt, simple responses, a blatant sign Butch was keeping things from him. In fact he was slightly insulted. This was a man he had nursed back to health, who felt he could trust Burke enough to tell him about his appalling past. Didn't Cavendish remember that?

"Will ye tell me more on it one day?" he asked, a little annoyed.

Butch finally looked at him, pausing on his way to the fire.

"One day," he said simply, then moved on. Burke huffed, though he did nothing else.

His meal was eaten without another word. Afterwards Butch let loose a belch and rose from where he had enjoyed his supper, noticing one of his men following suit and gathering the frying pan to clean it.

"Naw, leave it," Butch ordered. "I'll deal with it after I hold first watch."

With their boss returned, the gang retired in relative unison to their bedrolls. Despite the approach of spring, the nights were still chilly, and each man was curled under layers of clothes and blankets. One in particular was deliberately wrapped up as though in a cocoon, and he happily rocked back and forth for a few seconds before settling in.

Butch listened from his post as his crew fell into the realm of sleep. Several snored, Jésus being the loudest. When he determined himself to have waited long enough, he stood and sauntered over to Burke.

His companion had been drifting off into sleep whilst watching the campfire, and he would have succumbed fully if he had not felt the weight of Cavendish descending upon him. Awakening with a start, Burke caught the gleam of a silver tooth in the firelight.

"There's a little ravine about fifty paces down the path," a husky whisper entered his ear, caressing his sleepy mind with enticement. "Whatta ya say?"

Burke sighed audibly in approval of the offering. "Ye sure we won't be heard?"

So close was Butch to him that the Irishman felt the smile against him.

"We'll have t'be quiet. Jésus' snorin' should take care of the rest." He relieved his lover of some of his weight as the other turned over to face him, skillful fingers delving under a black coat.

"Lead the way."

Past the crag of rock the camp overlooked, the two outlaws descended the uneven staircase of stone nature had provided for them careful not to stumble or cause enough noise to wake potential eavesdroppers. Checking for scorpions and snakes in the dim moonlight, they found enough space in the gorge to do their business. In Butch's hand was the yet to be cleaned frying pan.

A flip of the coin later, both were naked from the waist down, though Burke's trousers and belt still lay around his ankles. Hand slick with grease from the pan, he lifted Butch and propped him against a large boulder, planning to keep the scarred outlaw pinned there with his cock. Back and elbows against the solid surface, Butch linked his legs around Burke's waist, holding the two of them steady as his snug channel was prepared for penetration. The older man was reminded of their time in the near-deserted hotel, latched onto his friend in similar fashion as he was pleasured by a talented Irish mouth. The mere recollection excited him, and with the stimulation by Burke's fingers, he was hard within seconds. The grip of his legs around Burke's waist tightened, a silent encouragement. Stroking himself erect and greasing his own sex, the younger outlaw guided himself within.

Burke bit his lip as he entered, and Butch swallowed down his own moan of pleasure. In the open space of the prairies, even tucked away in the ravine, their voices could travel back to the camp easily. Cavendish was fraught to express his overwhelming pleasure, feeling as though it might fly from his throat at any moment, but he abstained. After his caterwauling in the hotel last winter, he was not about to push his luck anytime soon.

Not that Burke's lips against his skin were helping his efforts. Unable to manually pleasure himself with his arms propped against the stone, Butch had to rely on his lover's treatment alone to achieve release. But Burke was well learned in satisfying intimate partners, and under his care, Butch was exceptionally responsive. Was he ever like this with other lovers? Burke doubted it.

A quick tongue teased at tanned flesh, producing goosepimples. Grinning at the shudder which passed through his lover, Burke licked one of the hardening nipples before him, and as it cooled in the night air, blew.

Butch thrust against him, his moan strangled in his attempts to stay quiet. The impact of their hips urged Burke deeper inside of him and he nearly hit the back of his head against the boulder as he arched his neck. He would have laughed at the frivolity of the situation, were he able, but instead he was nearing the summit of his bliss.

Reaching forward and squeezing tight, he pressed his face into Burke's shoulder and finally spoke of his release in a quaking dry sob, feeling his seed spurt between their flushed bodies. Burke's own fluids surged hot inside him less than a minute later, and his wiry illustrated frame trembled from the intensity. Laying back, arms spread on the boulder, Butch savored the moment, the way his lover's cock softened inside him, and the sound of Burke's own groaning descent from his sexual peak.

"I love ye."

The three words were so unexpected that Butch almost did not believe his own ears. But when he opened his eyes and looked up, his friend's worn out expression had been replaced by genuine shock. Even he was in disbelief over his own declaration. An uncomfortable silence passed where they could only hear their own breaths, still labored in the afterglow.

Shit. What afterglow?

"We better go back to the camp," Butch finally muttered, removing his legs from around Burke's waist and returning to the ground. Both men collected their discarded clothing and the frying pan, walking back up the stone stairs. Neither said a word to the other. As they returned to where they had originally been, Burke under his covers and Cavendish at his post, neither could calm the storm of feelings and thoughts rushing through their brains.

Butch thought himself fortunate to be a light sleeper, for if he had been relieved of his post any time soon, he would not have quickly fallen asleep. The most significant recurring thought, apart from the words which left Burke's big mouth, was of the damned mouth organ, still hidden away in his knapsack. Butch could hardly believe now that he had gone out of his way to get the stupid thing.

What the fuck was he letting himself turn into?


	4. Blood on the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang moves on, but it becomes clear that the cattle run has been made a target by something else.

The chill of the night carried into morning as the gang awoke enshrouded by fog. What warmth shared between Butch and Burke last night seemed to have dissipated, and neither directly spoke to the other whatsoever as they packed for departure. Their tension felt like a physical presence, the rest of the group deliberate in their silence as though to speak would set off a grievous turn of events. Even the most slow-witted of them could see their boss was in a black little mood. Butch commanded their departure, one of the few statements he made that morning, and the gang obeyed their leader order without question.

The cold seemed to follow them as they rode on.

Over the next day and a half, Burke and Butch barely spoke to each other, short of a few terse questions and answers. Cavendish stayed near the front of the convoy, and Burke, bristling at the other's frigid conduct and taking a hint, remained at the rear. He found himself doing little else but staring at his lover's back and watching the scalps at the older man's dark coat flutter in the wind.

The harmonica still remained in Butch's knapsack, though he had been tempted to hurl it into the gorge before leaving camp. Why the hell had he even gotten the damn gift in the first place? The connection between himself and Burke was one of mutual benefaction, both financially and physically, but otherwise they had nothing sentimental between them. They had hardly known each other for more than a year, and they knew very little _about_ each other... disregarding that week where Butch revealed his childhood to the other. Looking back on the memory now set his blood to boiling. Butch gritted his teeth. He had been an infatuated idiot, giving secrets left and right and acquiring trinkets for Burke just because the fucking was good.

Hell, it was the best he had experienced in a long time. But even in his most glorious moments of pleasure, he had not entertained the notion of love. Burke could not possibly have meant those words, had he? Butch did not need the devotion. He had prided himself in the building of his legacy, his lack of compassion and refusal to cater to any horse shit that obstructed him getting whatever he wanted. Decades had been devoted to becoming the legend he was at present, and his long list of things learned along the way included not doling his trust out to anyone who happened to cross his path. True, he trusted Burke with a hell of a lot, and he tolerated him, and the fucking really was damn good, but...

_Fuck, fuck, fuckity shitty ass fuck, balls, shit, fuck..._

As Cavendish's brain was stewing with thoughts that repeated themselves over and over, Burke's own mind did very much the same. The realization of his mistake had hit him near instantly after those three damn words had left his lips, and he too had been surprised over his post-coital confession. He held no memory of telling anyone in the past that he loved them, not even his own sister. Such declarations became more meaningless after her death, even more so after doing in his parents.

So why on Earth had he said it? Because he meant it? Based on the subsequent reaction, he could tell Butch hoped not. He could see the reason behind it too. Love was not beneficiary to the lives and concerns of outlaws. It did not bring in money, nor did it heal wounds of battle. Love was a weakness that left its possessors exposed and vulnerable.

Burke did not want Butch to feel vulnerable. He wanted to be by old bastard's side as they caused chaos and raked in the rewards of their wickedness. He wanted Butch to trust him; he could never betray him.

 _He has to know that_. _Right?_

And hell, maybe he did love Cavendish, as much as someone like him could love. This was his sweetheart, after all, his favorite partner in misdeeds. He genuinely liked Butch, and he was rather certain Butch liked him back.

But did he love Burke?

 _Christ_ , the Irishman thought, rubbing at his face in frustration. The two men had something good, something fun between them... something informal and detached. And here he had ruined it by opening his big stupid mouth.

_Bugger, bugger, buggery shitting piss, bog-arsed shit bugger, fuck..._

Skinny rode beside him and happened to notice just how miserable he looked.

"Are you alright?" the youth asked.

"Shut up," Burke retorted.

*

Butch seemed to smell it first.

Those riding closest to him noticed his reaction, the way he immediately lifted his head and sniffed the air. For two days and two nights he had said and done nothing, except for the occasional command whenever he decided they should stop to rest or continue riding. Now as noon lifted the sun high above them, his senses caught hold of something on the wind, and his entire person shifted. In an instant the hunched-over, brooding figure was gone, replaced by the upright, piercingly alert predator known by all. Barret raised a hand and the others came to a halt.

"What is it, Butch?" he asked.

"Quiet." Cavendish's body was tense, a snake ready to strike at any perceived threat. The moments in which the gang waited, looking around them, lasted for an unbearably long time. Uncertainty flickered in silver blue eyes.

"Let's go," he finally said, urging his horse onward. He remained upright in the saddle, looking around with greater vigilance than ever.

A half hour passed before the rest of the gang noticed the scent as well, as did their horses. As the animals grew uneasy, an uncomfortably familiar, faintly sweet scent of copper filled their riders' nostrils, and the further they travelled, the thicker it got. At the sight of dark stains on the ground ahead of them, the men readied their firearms.

Ten paces off of the path lay the carcass of a bull, limbs abducted from the body with only one of which visible about fifteen feet away. So mutilated were the remains that none in the group could determine if the animal had been sickly or old. No other carcasses could be seen, though tracks indicated a high level of traffic from both livestock and workers on horseback.

"Not robbers or Indians," Barret pointed out, riding close enough for examination, despite the complaints of his mount. "Too torn up for knife cuts. And Indians wouldn't have left nothin' behind."

"Wolves, maybe?" Alvirez offered.

"Whatever it is, we keep an eye out," Butch said, "but we stick to the plan."

Burke looked his friend's way just as Butch glanced at him. Though both looked away less than five seconds later, their eyes were fixed on one another long enough to understand the gravity of their situation. The root of the circumstances was still a mystery to them, but neither could shake it: something was wrong about all of this.

"Git on, then," Butch commanded.

Less than reassured by the mood of their horses, the gang continued to ride. Burke did not know if his suspicions matched those of the gang, but he knew Butch had to be thinking the same thing: this was not a matter of wolves.

As they rode onward, the gang's opinion of the journey was descending into nervous doubt. Their horses grunted and whinnied, eyes bulging until the whites were visible, but they continued onward as directed. With every gust of wind that rushed past them, the men were awash in the stink of shed blood, and the Cavendish gang began to dread what they would eventually discover. One thing was certain: the job they had travelled days for was but a fraction of the worries they were escorting themselves into.

Over an hour later, finally the source of the stench became visible in the distance. A streak of crimson spread in a wide swath along the dirt, some streaks separating from the bulk like branches on a very red tree.

"Come on now!" one of the men ordered his horse. Following the example of their animals would be wise, but the gang was not about to go back the way they came without knowing what the hell had ruined their chances of turning a profit.

The path continued uphill, and as they urged themselves ahead, the band of outlaws steeled themselves for whatever might await them over the peak. They tightened their grip on their weapons, and Burke considered whipping out a stick of dynamite. No one heard a clue of wolves beyond the crest, but even more troubling was the silence itself. A few glanced upward and saw no silhouette of a single bird, nor did they hear the cawing or shrieking of any creature made for eating carrion. What the hell was going on?

All held their breath as they reached the summit of the hill, and as they finally saw the prairie spread out before them, their voices seemed to have been taken from them as well. A few jaws dropped. Even Butch, in his stoicism and foul mood, was taken aback at the sight before them. Individual bodies were difficult to differentiate amidst so much gore and dismemberment, but a rough estimate would have placed the count at over three hundred.

No living thing could be seen for miles on the plains. Butch urged his horse forward for a closer look, his gang following close behind, albeit with trepidation. Riding around the aftermath of what was a blatant massacre, he noticed something on closer examination that barely surprised him. Not only did the massive, glistening carpet of gore belong to cattle but their ranchers and escorts as well. Human heads, some of which nearly reduced to mere skulls, had been curiously separated from their owners, tossed several feet away. Jésus whistled for attention, pointing at another unfortunate bastard twenty paces South, clearly a failed attempt at escaping the carnage. Only flies seemed bold enough to deal with the mess.

Two miles of pure death were observed before the chaos began to fragment itself, and the gang covered yet another mile of untouched ground before Butch ordered his men to set up camp. The stink of death and blood had followed them, clinging to their hair and dress, and some wondered if they would have to burn their clothes.

Whilst assisting the others, Burke watched as his friend ordered Mundy and two other men to head back and stand watch for a return of the culprits. At least one of the three must have started to balk at the order, because Butch took a quick step toward them as though to bite, snarling an echo of the command and causing them to wince. A hand rested at his hip, pushing aside the tails of his coat and exposing his revolver. Obeying their boss, the trio mounted once more and riding back from where they came.

Butch stood alone as he observed the shrinking forms, hands still on his hips and staring in grim, silent contemplation. Burke wanted to speak with him about the matter at hand, ask his opinion, but their recent debacle left him hesitant, as did Butch's subsequently icy behavior. The older outlaw's bearing reflected the frustration, anger, and bewilderment felt by Burke as well.

Their plans had been shot down, the job eliminated. Even worse, they had no idea what the hell they were dealing with, nor could they or the rest of the gang shake the disturbing feeling they were being watched.


	5. Hell's Emergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The source of the gang's troubles is discovered... and they're about to wish they had just left well enough alone.

Setting up camp in before night had fallen felt odd, especially when so close to a mire of rotting viscera. Yet Butch was determined to find out the source of the massacre, not to mention who would answer to him for ruining his chances of earnings over the now slaughtered cattle. He remained at the edge of the encampment while his men set up an early supper. Despite the lingering smell of the distant carnage, the gang had developed a niggling appetite from their long journey.

"It weren't wolves, whatever it was," Skinny said, stating the obvious as he sat down next to Barret, Phin, and Ray. Frank sat in silence next to Burke two paces away, looking nearly as stoic as their leader. Such behavior from a man as buffoonish as Frank proved both comical and disquieting to Burke.

"Brilliant sleuthin' there, Skinny," Phin muttered. The men continued their meal for another two minutes before Ray spoke up.

"What if it _were_ people, instead'a wolves?" he offered. "Made it look like animals to throw off suspicion?"

"Whoever did it needs'a be burnt to death."

All who heard Frank's remark turned and looked at him. Burke broke the awkward silence with a laugh, which was added to by the others.

"Ye always surprise me, Frank," he chuckled, "just when I think I have ye got."

"He's got a soft spot for animals," Barret explained gesturing to the young man at Burke's side. "It comes and goes sometimes... much like his brains."

Frank crossed his arms and pouted, and just like that, he returned to looking far less menacing.

"This supper is shit," Phin grumbled, lifting his spoon and watching the coarse gruel drip back into his bowl. "Hey, maybe we could use some of the dead cattle as food."

"Don't be stupid," Barret shot back at him. "We dunno what the hell ate them. There could be rabies, or piss and shit in there, and we'd be eatin' it."

"Piss and shit _and_ rabies?" Ray replied. "That's a helluva way to kill somethin',"

He managed to duck just in time as a spoon was swung at his head.

*

"Can't believe this hogshit."

"Just shut up and keep movin' so we can git this done with," Mundy said irritably to one of his companions, then added under his breath, "boys better leave some grub or else I'll be bustin' some skulls."

With the gang having ridden around the Southward side of the mess, Mundy's appointed band of scouts approached the North side. No hoof prints could be seen, suggesting the attackers had somehow ambushed the ranchers on foot. Dismounting, the burly man approached the remains of the several-hundred head of cattle. His fellow outlaws, who went by the names of Polk and Leland, joined him on the ground and toed the edge of the gory scene.

"Dunno how this could be human. Hell, even a whole army couldn't cause alla this," Leland stated, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

As before, no carrion birds or other scavengers were on the scene, apart from the flies. Early generations of maggots had already hatched, and they would only add to the stench as time went on. Poke had grabbed Leland's handkerchief from his long arms and was holding it to his mouth. Apart from the buzzing, the place was still unnaturally quiet. Continuing to walk, assessing the remains and trying to make sense of the bizarre devastation, they came to the human bodies, which were most peculiar of all.

"Like a butcher shop," Leland said.

"The hell's that mean?" Mundy asked, brow knit in annoyance.

"Look how pale the pieces of 'em are," the other man clarified, picking up a stick and prodding a shredded male torso, which indeed looked nearly bone white. "Paler than that spud-eatin' sister-boy, Burke. All this blood everywhere else... ain't no drop of blood _inside_ 'em."

Mundy spat at the red ground, unable to make sense of the circumstances at hand.

"Don't suppose we need to take a closer look," Polk commented, staring at the drained human parts.

Mundy shrugged, developing a nasty idea. "Butch gave us a job. Ya might as well not waste time."

Poke wheeled around and threw Mundy an astounded look, lip quivering under his thick beard, a sign he was likely resisting the urge to throw up.

"What?" he practically whined.

Mundy nodded toward the buzzing, crawling filth. "G'wan, take a better look. Ain't gonna get any better the more ya dawdle."

Polk pressed the cloth back to his mouth and nostrils as he and Leland looked at one another in trepidation. A slow first step was taken, causing a sickening wet crunch, and the two continued, desperate not to gag. Wading in the muck, they turned back and gaped at the sight of Mundy climbing onto his horse and riding off.

"Where the hell are you goin'??" Leland shouted, stunned.

"I'm gonna take a gander at the boy who tried to escape," he answered, looking back at them as he spoke. The smugness on his face was not lost on his cohorts. Polk took an inattentive step, and he cringed as his boot broke through a cow's ribs. His leg sank into rotted guts.

"Lazy goddamn dog dick," he fumed.

By the time Mundy had reached his source of interest, Leland and Polk were stained up to their knees in guts and blood, which did little to improve their foul moods and nagging sense of unease. The fact that their self-appointed leader had ordered them into a pointless chore went unsaid between them and they only glanced at each other once to confirm they were finished and returning to the unspoiled ground. When the sound of a twig snapping grabbed their attention, both men spun around, guns drawn, and Polk nearly slipped and fell into the gore.

Walking toward them at a swift, distraught pace was a sandy-haired woman who looked to be in her early thirties. Her feet were bare, her blood-stained dress reduced to the most intimate of layers. She shielded her eyes with one hand, squinting in the evening sun as she held out her other arm in a silent plea.

"Please," she finally spoke. "Help us."

Leland, taller and longer-limbed, was first to leave the gruesome muck, Polk staggering and cursing as he followed. At the sight of the woman, Leland's mood had shifted entirely within a second, and he smiled widely as he stretched out his hands in welcome.

"Please," she repeated. "At happened so fast. The cattle... my family... they attacked us!"

"Don'tcha worry, sugar. Now what's this about 'us'?" Leland interrupted her, licking chapped lips as she came closer. "Ya got more friends? Maybe a few more ladies? 'Cause we got friends who would love to have the company."

When she was close enough to reach for him, she swooned, caught by his arms before she could hit the ground. Leland simply laughed.

"A fine performance if I ever saw one," he remarked. "Except I dunno why a woman would be on a cattle drive."

"Leland," he heard behind him.

"Ease up, Polke, I know what I'm doin'. Yer tryin' to trick us, ain'tcha? Yer part of what caused all this, ain'tcha? Actin' helpless while yer friends step in before we know it?"

"Leland...?" Polke repeated, this time more urgently.

"Damn it, what?" the taller man snapped, glancing behind him. On the crest of the hill where the gang had first viewed the extent of the slaughter stood three figures, motionless and staring. Perhaps the setting sun was playing tricks on their eyes, but to the pair of outlaws, something seemed aberrant about them, the shapes of their bodies, the aspect of their limbs, fingers spread like claws. One figure moved his head and even at the distance from where the two outlaws stood, the glint of its eyes was visible.

"What the hell is..." Leland trailed off, looking back to the woman in his arms for answers. Except he no longer held a woman, not when she had a face like what he now saw. Her eyes were open, sickly yellow irises staring up at him from within black pits. Her features had sunk against bone, bruised at the eye sockets and the hollows of cheeks. Before he could find his voice again, the ghoulish thing opened its mouth and sank long needle teeth into his throat.

Mundy was noting the pale, bloodless qualities of the failed escapee's remains when he heard a scream, followed by a gunshot. He turned his horse to see what nonsense his fellow criminals had gotten themselves into when he noted what he could only describe as a flock approaching Leland and Polk. The people - if they could even be called that - descended the hill and were upon the two men in seconds. Leland was already on the ground, and Polk, shooting his revolver in the middle of the mess that was bone and viscera, looked like an ugly child trapped in a red river. He tripped as he stepped backwards from the assault and landed amidst the gore. Two of the four strangers jumped onto him and silenced his screams, adding to the carnage beneath him.

As far as Mundy could discern, three of the strangers were male, while a forth was female. To call them men or women would have been a lie. These things looked human and wore human clothes, but humans were not that fast. Humans could not rend heads from bodies.

He was so trapped in horrified astonishment that he did not think to escape. The thought only crossed his mind when the female rose from her feeding on Leland's corpse. It looked right at him and screamed. The others turned in unison.

Mundy wasted no time, his heels jabbing into his mount's skin and taking off, not daring to look behind him. He did not care that he was leading the creatures to the rest of the gang. He was not about to join that bastard on the ground behind him. His heart pounded in his ribs almost hard enough to challenge the galloping hooves beneath him, and in no time he could hear the demonic howling getting closer.

"Holy shit," he chanted, his voice shrill with terror. "Holy shit. Holy shit. HOLY SHIT..."

*

The sound of a fired gun caught Butch's attention, and thus his concern. He sat still beyond the edges of the campsite, peering at the horizon as the sun sank, bringing the night in its stead. Mundy and the others had found something. And if none of the scouts returned, Cavendish would have to decide between two options: take off and never look back, or go back to the site of the slaughter. Not to do any rescuing of course, but to figure out what the hell the was dealing with, and how to make it regret ever being born.

He was about to move to stand when the sound of footsteps approached him from behind.

"Butch?" a voice with a certain Irish lilt addressed him. "D'ye have a moment?"

Butch grunted, turning his head ever so slightly to acknowledge Burke, who saw this response as an affirmative.

"The lads are wonderin' if they should retire, get a few winks in."

"Not after that shot just happened," Butch rose to his feet. "Now why are you really wantin' to talk?"

The look he gave Burke was a dark one, impatient and stern. The younger outlaw thought it best not to waste time and simply get to the point.

"Are ye cross with me?" he asked, curious. Not that this would be news to him if so. Butch, however, remained silent and looked back at the horizon, betraying nothing of his thoughts or feelings.

"I'll take that as a yes," Burke said with an uncomfortable laugh. "Ye know... we do trust each other, I've got that much correct, right? And we tell each other whatever we think, I gather."

"Your point being?" Butch asked, and his dull and uninterested tone of voice sounded a little too deliberately so.

"Why can't we discuss what happened a few nights ago?" his Irish companion argued, beginning to lose his own patience. "I woulda thought with what was between us"--

"Because now ain't the time!" Butch hissed, turning on Burke so fast the tattooed man took a step back in surprise. "Not with what's goin' on. In case ya didn't notice, I got a job that's gone down the shithole and no clue as to what's done the damage, and maybe now whatever caused all'a this knows we're here too."

He brought his face inches from Burke's, and Burke was reminded of how easily it must have been for any normal person to be terrified of the cannibal outlaw. In the encroaching darkness, the blue seemed to have vanished from Cavendish's eyes altogether. An authoritative finger pressed into the center of Burke's chest, and he could feel the tip of the nail prod him through the material of his shirt.

"So you'll have to pardon me if I ain't ready to discuss whatever's 'between us'," the anger in his quiet, rasping voice was clear as a bell.

Burke pursed his lips, glancing at his feet as Butch returned to his vigil. He knew he should have let the subject rest right then and there, but damn him, he could not resist.

"But one day we will."

One of Cavendish's hands clenched into a fist, a knuckle or two cracking in the process.

Before he could further express his exasperation, however, his ears picked up the sound of hooves, growing steadily louder. Only one horse was approaching. Readying his pistol, Butch shot his Irish friend a warning look.

"We've got company!" Burke immediately called back to the camp. "Ready yer weapons!"

Less than a minute later, Mundy came charging out from the darkness, throwing himself off of his mount. He shone with sweat and looked ready to either cry or vomit, perhaps both.

"The hell happened??" Barret asked as Burke and Cavendish joined the bewildered gathering.

Mundy lost his footing as he looked about the camp in all directions, stumbling to his feet with frantic staccato breaths. He seemed to ignore the other men as he yanked out one of his two revolvers, eyes darting in a panic at perceived threats in the growing darkness.

"They killed Polk and Leland, tore'em apart like they were nothin'! And now they're headed this way!" he shouted, checking the cylinder of his pistol and adding more bullets.

"Who's 'they'?" Butch demanded. Mundy looked at him, eyes bugging.

"They ain't human!"

Barret shook his head in confusion. "The hell d'ya mean?"

"They're somethin' crawled outta hell," the other man gulped, steadying the shaking of his voice and brandishing both guns. Fully armed and pulling back the hammers, he stood up straight, hanging onto whatever courage he had left. "And whatever they are, they ain't gettin' to me!"

Both feet were yanked out from under him. He hit the dirt face down, his grip tightening in response to the impact. Both guns fired and Alvirez shouted in pain as a stray bullet clipped him in the arm. Mundy futilely clawed at the ground as his unseen attacker dragged him screaming into the darkness.

The gang stood paralyzed with fear and disbelief at what had just occurred, listening as the screams gave way to gurgling moans. The silence which followed only worsened the dread which took hold of each heart in the camp. Even Alvirez, in pain from the bullet wound, found himself too frightened to make a noise.

The unbearable silence was short-lived. A wicked laugh sounded from the darkness, and like a signal it brought hell with it, screaming out of the black quiet.

Guns were fired. Flashes of teeth and claws and horrible yellow eyes reflected off of firelight. Bullets pierced their targets, but none of the nightmarish parodies of humanity seemed fazed whatsoever. Butch himself, tackled by one of the monsters in the melee, placed the barrel of his gun against the thing's chest and pulled the trigger. Any chance of the heart surviving such a blast was nonexistent, yet still his attacker struggled, eager to slice him to ribbons with its claws. The fiend only got as far as slashing through three layers of clothes before Butch managed to kick the damnable thing off of him and into the campfire. Righting himself, he watched as his opponent flailed and fearfully extinguished the flames.

"Gather close!" Cavendish roared over the chaos. "Git near the fire!" Only a handful of the men heard his order amidst the commotion while the rest remained lost in the skirmish.

Phin was nearly taken in the same fashion as Mundy, but Skinny shot the assailant in the face. His victory was tragically brief; another of the creatures took hold of him and the bearded youth screamed in agony as fangs sank into the junction between shoulder and neck. His pistol fell from his hand and he was easily pulled to the ground, scattering nearby supplies. However, the pain enlivened his will to fight, and in his struggling he managed to grab a cooking fork, slick in his hands with sweat and blood, and drove it backward against the foul thing latched onto him. The creature still lived, but it finally let go, clasping a clawed hand over her ruined eye and running off, tattered white dress giving her the appearance of a savage ghost.

As the gang managed to gather together near the remnants of the campfire, Burke and Ray broke from the group, dragging Alvirez and Skinny into the center of their defensive cluster. As he shoved the younger of the two amidst the collective shield that was the gang, Burke ducked a swipe of claws and fell to the ground in his attempt to dodge. He clenched his jaw, locking eyes with the ghoul before him and feeling not fear but anger.

 _Oh no you fucking don't_ , he thought, staring the creature down.

Grabbing a piece of wood from the fire, he rose to his feet, lunging. The demonic thing facing him snarled, but retreated. Grinning in triumph, he followed suit, ignoring Butch's protests. He lowered his torch along the boundaries of the campsite and within seconds the entirety of the surrounding prairie grass was set ablaze. One of the monstrous beings leapt from the vegetation fully engulfed, thrashing and howling as it escaped.

Two of the beasts remained, a black-haired male and the female with the ruined eye, snarling in anger but unable to cross the fiery barrier. If they could manage to jump over the blaze, they clearly did not want to try their luck. Nervous laughter arose amongst the gang until they cheered in their victory, taunting the beasts. Burke waved his torch in the air and laughed loud and long, pacing along the illuminated edge of the camp. The dry grass would only supply fuel for the fire for a short amount of time, and he vowed to make sure these abominations would not get past him when the flames finally died down.

Then the male and female looked beyond the gang and grinned, and those who noticed had barely even two seconds to realize that once again their enemy would gain the upper hand. Butch turned back to inspect what the two beasts had been looking at, and to his dismay beheld that a third had leapt up into the branches of a nearby tree. He was just beginning to lift his gun and aim when the foul thing hurled itself beyond the flames and landed next to Burke.

Burke was already crying out from the fangs embedded in his flesh when a bullet hit his assailant. The creature snarled at the gunshot in its shoulder, but refused to release its hold, turning to face whomever had shot it. The jerking of its head caused Burke to shout in pain again.

"Lemme through!" Butch shouted, breaking past his men and aiming a second time, but the struggles of his fellow outlaw meant he could barely get a clear shot. By the time he did, the monster noticed the inferno was dying down, and it took a chance its fellows had refused to, jumping over the burning barricade. Butch fired his revolver and missed. The last he saw of Burke was his fighting, bloody body disappearing into the darkness, the unholy bastards dragging him away like foxes raiding chickens.

For a moment, Butch felt an extraordinary ache in his chest that spread outward into his limbs and brought sweat to his brow. It was a feeling he had not experienced since he was a boy. But the sting of hopeless fear was ignored seconds later, replaced by something much stronger. Grabbing a bundle of dynamite from Burke's rucksack, he jumped onto his horse, steering it to the route where the demonic things had retreated.

Barret, who had been inspecting Skinny's wounds, realized what his leader was up to, but he asked nonetheless.

"Butch, what'r you doing??"

"I'm trackin'em down," Cavendish answered, struggling to make his fearful horse cross the dying flames. "Come on, git up! GO!!" He bucked his heels and finally the animal leapt.

"Butch, wait!" the second in command called out. "There's likely to be more where they came from!"

"Don't matter," he roared back. "I'm gonna find'em and kill'em!" He lifted the bundle of explosives for the rest to see. "Now who's with me?!"

Most of the band joined him, some out of fear of the consequences for disobeying, the rest ready to do some killing now that they knew fire could actually hurt the damnable monstrosities. Barret stayed behind with Skinny and Alvirez, huddled next to the campfire like worshippers around an idol.

Butch rode like a madman, uncaring of the state of his horse. He did not care what these monstrosities were, nor the slim chances he and his gang had of defeating them. He was going to find Burke, and he was going to make these aberrations suffer for what they had done.


	6. Burnt Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang engages in a rescue. But are they too late?

The full pitch darkness of night left the gang riding with torches. Their quarry, however, did not seem to need such assistance as they raced along the prairie, their keen eyesight guiding them over rough terrain.

Frustrated, Butch held up his hand and brought his horse to a halt, his men obeying the gesture by doing the same.

"Quiet," he whispered, listening for any sounds that might give away their opponents. But the prairie was deathly quiet. A gust of wind passed them by, and Cavendish inhaled the current.

"Do you smell that?" he muttered, split lip curling into a snarl.

Barret, riding at his side, caught a whiff. "Yeah."

The smell cut into their senses, distinct and repellant: burnt flesh. Butch pointed East.

"That way. But we go slow."

As the gang rode Eastward, they caught sight of a flickering light in the distance, possibly a lantern. Butch signaled for his men to dismount and led them closer to what was in actuality the mouth of a cave. Extinguishing their torches, the gang crept ever closer until they were clinging to the rock walls of the cavern exterior, peeking around the bend at the entrance.

"What the hell?" Phin muttered.

Outside the mouth of the cave sat the creature which had been set on fire back at the campsite, groggily gnawing at its injuries like a coyote stuck in a trap. Visible in the lantern light was the smoke that still wafted off of its scorched flesh, and it looked to be fighting desperately not to keel over. So out of sorts was it that the beast only realized it had visitors when an arm clamped around its neck. As it was tossed to the ground, it opened its mouth to warn its fellows, and only a choked gargle and a puff of smoke and ash escaped. Ray brought a hatchet down on its neck, severing the foul thing's head.

The cave itself was quiet from the moment the gang had arrived. None of them knew what awaited them, if the ghouls had been anticipating their arrival or even lay hiding within. Jaw set and dynamite in hand, Butch entered, followed by the others.

Every footstep in the rocky tunnel was amplified, and the idea that these beings had a more improved sense of hearing than an average man weighed heavily on their minds. They crept against the stone walls, lantern light dimming as they searched, and Butch again held up a hand to signal their halt. As they stood silently, waiting at the curve of the tunnel, they too realized what their leader had been listening to. Without a doubt, their abominable foes lurked beyond, because one of them was eating. Despite the sickening sounds of wet ripping and echoes of the snapping of bones, Butch holstered his gun and pulled out a match, ready to light the explosives and blow apart anything which stood in his way.

Creeping around the bend, the gang and their leader froze in place at the sight which greeted them. In the dim light, the one-eyed female tore into human remains which the others realized must have belonged to Polk, based on the beard left on the torn open face. A few paces further down, two of the creatures held onto Burke, one of which suspending its lacerated arm over the Irishman's face.

Even in the dark, Butch could see that Burke was barely able to maintain consciousness, let alone withstand or break free from his captives. He squirmed under the grip of vice-like claws, and as blood poured into his forced open mouth, he gagged, sending tiny fountains of the noxious fluid back up. Butch lit the match, immediately drawing the attention of the ghoulish figures. They hissed, their yellow eyes reflecting the firelight, and Burke jolted at the noise, looking without focus toward his rescuers.

Without hesitation, Barret fired his revolver, hitting one of the males between the eyes. Still alive, the fiend let go of Burke nevertheless, retreating further into the cave. Butch lit the fuse and tossed the dynamite as his men fired at the remaining creatures. Both the female and remaining male joined their comrade, but they would not be gone for long. With the fuse rapidly shrinking, the gang had to hurry, lest they be blown to pieces like their abominable foes.

Butch grabbed Burke and had him over his shoulder in an instant. The others followed suit, terrified to look back in case doing so slowed them or they might see the creatures close behind. Once outside, they dove out of the path of the opening. In the exact moment before the blast occurred, the demonic female emerged, escaping into the night.

Those who moved to shoot at her were knocked to the ground by the force of the dynamite's explosion. Body parts flew out the mouth of the cave with the eruption of smoke and fire. The largest fragment of formerly living being was a torso, head and one arm still attached while the legs ended furthest at the knee. It was launched nearly ten feet away from the cave until gruesomely bouncing to a stop. In the aftermath, the gang - despite all previous surprises - was in disbelief to see the damnable thing still moving. As his men saw to Burke and searched the dark skies for any sign of the female, Butch strode over to the hunk of sizzling flesh as it awkwardly turned itself over and attempted to drag itself away with one hand.

Butch kicked the creepy bastard onto its back, expression cold as he watched it pitifully attempt to claw at his leg. With little effort, he held it down with one foot, aiming his revolver at the scorched visage staring back up at him. Like its fellow, the thing released a small dust cloud as it opened its mouth, laughing at the sight of the gun.

The gang lingered by the cave entrance, staring incredulously at the creature which somehow still lived and seemed unfazed by any sense of pain. Jésus, studying the writhing atrocity before them, rose to his feet and searched through a knapsack at his side.

"Here," he said, walking up to Butch and handing him what he had found. Butch glanced down, and the letter opener in his hand caused him to look twice. He doubted the efficiency of such a useless, trivial instrument, but what the hell. He was sick of hearing the laughter of this unholy bastard under his boot. Dropping to his knees, he stabbed the monster through its chest. For a split second a look of confusion altered its features, but its singed face contorted further, its laughter changing to shrieks of pain and fear. Around the letter opener, the flesh blossomed in burns and gore, the wound spreading as the fiend thrashed and howled. Within seconds, it breathed its last smoky breath and died.

Butch removed his improvised weapon, stood up, and stared down at the pitiable sight in quiet amazement.

"Damn." He glanced at the letter opener, then at Jésus. "What is this?"

"Silver," the Mexican replied, looking just as amazed, but pleased all the same with the result before them. "The gift of the traitor Judas. They cannot survive its touch."

"Since when'r you religious?" Butch muttered, then paused. "'They'?"

"Cihuateteo. I thought they were just a story for children, but we've just seen how real they are. Blood-drinkers."

"Leanan sídhe."

Both turned at the sound of Burke's voice, and Butch, realizing his friend had been going ignored after his harrowing experience, regained his worry for the young man tenfold. He rushed over to the groaning Irishman, the very reason the gang had been dragged out into a chase in the pitch darkness after flesh eaters which until now seemed unable to die.

Burke was looking quite red, stained in both his blood and that of his attackers. He had a balled-up rag pressed to his shoulder where he had been torn into, and his natural complexion proved judging blood loss to be difficult, but he was alive. As Butch knelt in front of his friend, he saw in their eye contact that he was alert as well.

"Also called the Dearg-due," Burke continued. "But I think you fellas call them vampires."

"Bullshit," Phin retorted.

"Ye have any other explanation for what we just dealt with, I'm keen to hear it." Being abducted, tormented, and nearly ripped apart did nothing for Burke's patience. Still kneeling in front of him, Butch lifted the rags from the bloody wound and gave close inspection. The fact that the ragged teeth marks were not far worse surprised him. By all rights, the way the unnatural creature had tossed and dragged Burke like a ragdoll should have had him bleeding out.

"Whatever they were," Cavendish stated, "You still managed to slip outta their grasp like the little weasel you are."

Wincing at the inspection, Burke managed a smile, albeit a strained, miserable one.

Standing up, Butch commanded his gang to retrieve the horses.

"We'll return to camp. Keep your eyes and ears out for that demon bitch what flew away." It was a command he never imagined he would ever be giving.

Mounting their animals, the gang passed the sizzling remnants of their targets. Though their spirits had been lifted by the discovery to have finally found ways of hurting and killing these beasts... it had still been hell to do so. What was more worrying was the state of the slaughter of the cattle and ranchers. Despite the strength and ferocity of these creatures, these supposed vampires, the extent of their carnage was clearly not the work of only a handful of them. Countless more were out there somewhere, hiding and waiting to strike again, and they had incentive to hunt down Cavendish's gang.

Three men were dead, and three more were badly injured. One of the aberrant creatures had escaped into the black sky, likely to find more of her own. The gang could run, but none were certain of how long they could do so before they were caught.

Burke shared a horse with Ray as the group departed the cave. He sneered at the dismembered bloodsuckers and muttered something his compatriot recognized as clearly not English.

"Whuzzat?"

"Go gcuire sé sconna ort," Burke repeated. "M'granda used to say it. _May it give ye the runs_."

Those earshot of him paused to consider the curse, then warmed to it, laughing.

*

Back at camp, Barret had been treating Skinny and Alvirez's wounds. He had seared the injuries with a red hot iron - which thoughtfully remained over the fire for his compatriots - and was stitching and binding by the time the rest of the gang returned. Noting the weak look on Alvirez and the miserable look on Skinny, Burke approached to the hot iron, which was currently glowing red from the flames.

"Someone be a lad and hold me down, will ye?" He lay down on his stomach, gesturing to the iron. Rolling his eyes, Barret grabbed the red hot implement while Jésus sat on the Irishman's back, resulting in an audible 'oof'.

"Don't enjoy this too much," Burke grumbled.

"Ain't much to treat, Burke," Barret noted aloud. "But stay still all the same."

Burke heard the hissing of the burnt flesh a fleeting moment before he felt the pain. His resulting cry ended in a laugh.

"FFFFFFUUckin' bloody shite..." he yelled. Jésus stood up, allowing the younger outlaw to roll onto his side. Burke chuckled, wincing as he experimentally touched the scoured wound.

_Not so bad._

Righting himself and examining his clothes, he noted with some annoyance that his shirtsleeves were impossible to salvage. Apart from the shredded material where claws and teeth had torn into his flesh, he was drenched nearly to the waist in blood, belonging both to himself and the vampires. The smell of it was potent, thick enough that he was expecting any who approached him to gag. He was enough of a mess for two men, and he worried that if he did not soon treat himself to a bath he might attract flies like the dead cattle.

Lifting a sticky hand, he caught himself just as he was about to place a finger into his mouth.

_What the hell?_

He shook his head and yanked off his ruined shirt, grabbing a skin of water and proceeding to rinse the red from himself as best as possible. It would do for now.

Meanwhile, Butch was shirtless as well, focused on mending his own wounds. Taking a quick gulp of whiskey, he immediately followed this with a pouring of the liquor against a set of slashes on his side, grimacing at the discomfort the action brought. The parallel pattern of the four near identical wounds was a clear indication that one of the living dead aberrations had tried to claw Cavendish open. The injuries looked superficial, but still severe enough that they needed to be closed.

Burke watched as his companion threaded a needle, then attempted to sew the incisions shut. However, the location of the claw marks proved to be just close enough to his back that stitching them himself was impossible, much less seeing his progress. Burke watched his attempts and listened to him curse for a few seconds before walking over, holding out his hand.

"Allow me."

Gazing upward at the tattooed man, Butch granted Burke his request. Acquiring the thread and needle, Burke sat down and set to work.

Butch observed the attention paid to his injuries with silent introspection. The last time he had required help in stitching a wound was during the war, when some red-leg son of a bitch jumped out of a thicket and tried to stab him in the back. The pathetic bastard's attempt was hardly fatal and he lost his eyeballs as reward, less for his brazenness but for shit aim.

The major difference between that maddening day and where he sat presently was the care with which his current physician took. He noticed with some amusement just how vigilant Burke was in making the stitches as small as possible, and he tried not to smile as he watched his friend's concentration, the way the tip of a clever tongue peeked out between thin lips. As the Irishman realized he was being watched, he gave a small grin.

"Marks of battle," he said. "Anyone sees these, they'll think you won a fight with a bear."

"Might do. 'Cept bears don't need fire or silver to kill'em." Butch glanced off to the rest of the gang, who were still ascertaining damages. "And they don't feed people their own blood."

The comment was an offhand observation, but Burke still paused for a second, then continued to finish up his sewing. The concept alone that he had not only been fed upon but then fed by their enemy was troubling. What was their purpose for doing so? Was it simply another example of their cruelty? Something in his memory, far and away in his boyhood, sounded similar, but he could not quite place exactly what. As he trimmed the thread in his completed stitches, he recalled a moment when he was a child, accidentally cutting his hand on some broken glass and sucking the blood from the nick. Absent-mindedly drifting his fingers over the repaired claw marks of his beloved, he felt an invasive little thought nudge his mind, a wonderment as to what it might be like to do the same for Butch's wounds now. Cavendish's pulse seemed to hammer behind the stitches, just under the tattooed outlaw's fingertips.

How would cannibal blood taste?

"Burke."

He was jolted out of his thoughts by Butch's voice, his own heart pounding. Ghost blue eyes examined him for explanation to his obvious internal retreat.

"It's nothing." Burke lifted a hand to caress a hollow cheek, but Cavendish turned his head away, obviously still affected by their previous uncomfortable humiliation. Holding back a sigh, Burke rose to his feet and returned to the campfire.

Seeing an open seat on a log, he sat down next to Skinny, rubbing at his face in exasperation at the thoughts in his head, when he looked up and across the fire. Others were staring, not just at him but Skinny as well. In fact, the two of them were being actively avoided. The space between the two and the rest of the gang was obviously deliberate, the fire acting as a protective partition between them. Each man held up an object, a spoon here, a watch there, like talismans, and Burke quickly realized their common feature: all of the objects were silver.

Skinny shivered, catching on nearly as fast as Burke.

"What the hell!" he squeaked. "Have the lotta ya gone insane?"

"You both got bit," Ray tentatively pointed out. "The two'a ya should be farin' worse... but you're not."

Skinny promptly stood, causing the others to flinch and hold up their impromptu weapons a little higher.

"I ain't no vampire! Look at me!"

"We are lookin'," Phin replied, pointing an accusing finger. "Maybe you don't look exactly like one'a them _yet_. But then the next thing you know, you'll be chewin' our heads clean off!"

"I won't!" Skinny argued, hands out in an attempt to communicate his helplessness and (strange as it sounded) innocence, but when he took a step toward his comrades, he despaired at their immediate retreat from him. Some even brandished their little silver talismans like swords. When Burke stood as well, Frank dove behind the others.

"Stop bein' so bloody daft, we're fine!" He insisted. Granted, he was not certain about the condition of the young man at his side, but he knew he personally felt no different.

By the time Butch arrived at the fire, Burke and Skinny were steadily being surrounded by the remainder of the band of outlaws, who looked ready to stab them with their blunt silverware.

"They're turning into vampires!" Alvirez croaked out.

"No, we're not!" Burke countered, feeling like a child in a trivial argument. Skinny instantly turned to his leader, almost on his knees and groveling.

"Butch, please don't kill me," he begged. "I promise I won't eat nobody!"

"Don't trust him!" Alvirez shouted. "They'll turn on us"--

"SHUT UP, ALLA YA!" Cavendish finally roared. "This is horse-shit, and we're gonna figure this out once and for all. Jésus, give'em the damn letter opener."

Burke sneered and held out his hands as Jésus did as told. The silver tool glinted in the firelight as it arced through the air, right at his illustrated hands. Now he could prove to these great stupid balbháns that they had nothing to worry about...

"Ah!" The hiss of his hand burning against the metal was heard by all, and instinctively he dropped the letter opener. Astounded, he stared down at the angry looking welts on his palms, feeling their sting. The tense silence which followed the revelation made the crackling of the fire seem thunderous.

When he looked up at the gang, Burke watched his former compatriots pull out their firearms, silver still at the ready, but he was so in shock over what had just occurred that he barely registered their hostility. Only when he heard another gun removed did he return to the matter at hand. He turned at the sound and saw that Butch was aiming his own weapon, though not at him. Butch lifted his jagged lip in a snarl as he threatened his own gang.

"You shoot'em," he growled, "I'll blast the lotta ya in half."

Burke smiled, stepping toward the one person who seemed to still trust him, then froze in place as Cavendish turned his gun on him.

"Butch"--

"Don't take another step." Butch was never one to kid. His finger was firmly on the trigger. Burke shook his head, desperate to convince his lover to spare him, to still believe he was on their side. Yet his mind was bereft of means to persuade.

"I'm not a bloodsucker," he finally managed to say, cursing his clumsy words. "I... hell, I ain't even hungry." His argument held water like cheese cloth, and his awkward chuckle only further gave away the fear already evident in his hazel eyes. Butch was not swayed, keeping his gun trained on the man he once trusted with his life, the one he slept beside and made love to, with whom he shared his secrets. As he searched for any hint of mercy in his lover's own eyes, Burke saw not anger but hurt. Butch was wordlessly battling with his own sense of reason, unable to decide between shooting the potential traitor in his gang's midst or sparing the man he still knew.

Burke hated that look in his friend's eyes.

"I won't beg ye, love," he said softly. "But yer gonna need more than just lead bullets."

The pain in Butch's eyes gave way to anger (at Burke? at himself?) and he began to squeeze the trigger.

In the overwrought spectacle of the confrontation, all had drawn their attention away from Skinny, who had been staring at the letter opener laying on the ground. Hands shaking, his sudden outburst startled everyone, nearly prompting Butch to shoot.

"I won't be one'a them!" he cried. Before anyone could act, he dove for the letter opener and, grasping tightly with both hands, plunged the dull blade into his stomach.

Hands shaking, Skinny lamented the bluntness of the instrument and his weak resolve; the letter opener's entry was shallow. In his pain, his grip remained on the handle, and in doing so, the other outlaws noticed something very vital. The youth's skin did not burn against the silver. With guarded reassurance, Barret was the first to step toward him, and he tended to the self-inflicted wound.

"I don't understand," Skinny whimpered.

"You ain't the only one. This don't make a lick of sense," Ray said, pinching the center of his brow in an attempt to drive out the beginnings of a headache. "If Skinny ain't one of them, how is Burke?"

At first no one seemed able to answer. Butch had lowered his gun in the course of their recent discovery and Burke had sunk to the dirt much like Skinny, just as confused as the rest. The Irishman was already immersed in bewilderment and alarm from the disclosure of his newfound self. But should he have really been so surprised? After all, he had just been wondering how his own friend's blood would have tasted, and noted how strong his nose could suddenly detect the smell of both his own blood and that of the creatures...

"They fed me," he said, causing all around him to look his way. Of course. The memory from his childhood came back completely.

"I dunno about yer legends, Jésus," he continued, "but some I heard, they can make more of themselves _from_ themselves. And in the cave, after they fed off of me, they gave me their own blood."

Jésus holstered his pistol, contemplating as he scratched at his stubbly beard. "Where I was a boy, the people in my little village asked for curanderos to kill the ghouls and vampires. But they also cured them. They had more cures than you can count, most probably bullshit. But something that they always said... cihuateteo has a chance to be saved if it goes hungry, or it can feed even and be damned forever."

Burke gave a hopeless, bitter laugh. "So as long as I don't indulge, I'll be just grand."

"That ain't just somethin' to ignore, I expect." Phin glared at him condemningly, rubbing a thumb over the silver fork in his hand. "It's gotta get worse the more you go without. One day you won't be able to help yourself."

"What's for certain," Butch said, interrupting the overwrought conversation, "is that we can't stay here. We gotta keep movin', long as those shit-suckin' sons of bitches are still out there, so pack up to leave. Immediately."

Fearful not to incite their leader's wrath, the men did as commanded. Burke noted the way most of the gang gathered in a little cluster even in packing, nestled together like helpless newborn pups. Equally stupid, the tattooed man thought. With some self-satisfaction, he considered how easily he might be able to dispatch all of them now that he was a bloodsucker. Perhaps it was justified for everyone to have turned against him.

Including Butch? He hoped not, based on the look in the older man's eyes only minutes before, but his fears stood a chance of coming true. Would Butch be the one to eventually kill him if this all went to hell?

"Phin has a point," Barret remarked, approaching him. "Maybe you don't wanna hurt anyone here, but we don't know how this hunger's gonna change you."

A ragged exhale of defeat escaped Burke. He felt like a captured wild animal.

"Fine," he muttered, shoulders slumping as he grudgingly stared at the dirt. He lifted his arms, hands which did not yet have claws held together. "Tie me up if ye don't trust me."

Barret looked to Butch before acting on his own, ever the second in command. Eyes shut as though in physical discomfort for his decision, Butch gave a single nod. Gathering a chain from his pack, Barret bound Burke's arms, and the Irishman complied in his restraints, though not without a hint of resentment. By all rights, he could try to break free and show them what for. Yet the gang now knew of ways to kill vampires. If he was to avoid ending up as one of the scorched monsters at the cave, he was going to have to play meek as a duckling.

"But I would be findin' more ways to kill these bastards if I were you," he added with a smirk. "Spoons and forks, a pocket watch? Ye don't have much in the way of silver."

His smirk became a grin, his impish, wicked side coming out to play for the first time in days.

"And my explosives will only last for so long."

"Get a move on," Butch announced, voice dull as he climbed into his saddle. To Burke, his friend seemed deliberate in not looking at him. Not at all to his surprise, the Irish outlaw was refused the use of a horse, led by his chains on foot as the company departed. He was back to the days of his first adventure with the gang, when he was someone not to be trusted, especially not by Butch.


	7. Granted Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack takes flight, and Burke develops a troubling new ability.

Dawn was approaching by the time the one-eyed female reached her brethren. Their reception of her was anything but warm, hissing at her appearance and wielding their claws, ready to strike.

"Four of you left, only one comes back!" one of the crowd snarled.

"You were to bring back more, not less," a second added.

"They were too strong," the female insisted in desperation. "They caught us off guard!"

"How could the living surprise any of us, much less kill us?" a vampire asked, disgusted. "You're a disgrace to the pack!"

"Pathetic!" another shouted as the horde closed in around her.

"These men were different!" she said, voice weak as she shrank towards the ground.

"Hepzibah."

All turned at the sound of a voice which, despite its quiet volume, reached every vampire's ears. Parting at the approach of the voice's owner, the throng cowered, timidly looking up at the vampire who addressed the female. Long, translucent robes hanging off of sturdy shoulders and trailing behind him in the dirt, he descended the slope of a small hill. Behind him followed a pair of vampires which carried a wooden crate. His dark hair was cropped close to the skull, and in the waning moonlight, his severe features looked all the more deathly.

"I was already austerely disappointed in the debacle with the ranchers," he said, casual in his tone and gait as he passed her. "All that mess and little to show for it."

Hepzibah was the only member of the pack to refrain from groveling.

"But Karel... it was blood"--

"Worthless blood," the other vampire snapped, turning toward her so fast that she dove for the dirt, prepared to be punished. Her leader knelt over her, calmly watching her shivering state.

"While you and our brothers were so thoughtfully keeping vigil at the trail, you were sadly absent when I reminded the pack that we needed HUMAN BLOOD!"

Long claws grabbed Hepzibah by her hair, yanking her up from the ground. She shrieked at the sudden motion and pain, fearing what might await her if she died a second time. The claw of his free hand's index finger ventured toward the ragged wound that was once her eye.

"And now you come back saying you found meek, simple little humans that not only resisted, but killed three of us?"

The claw raked along the raw wound, agitating it enough to bleed again. Hebzibah howled at the suffering he dealt upon her.

"They discovered us," the female sniveled. "They had fire... explosives..."

Karel scrutinized her pleading expression, considering her words, until finally letting her go.

"It's strange," he stated calmly to the pitiable heap on the ground. "But I sense that someone remains far from our congregation...?"

"Yes, yes!" she exclaimed, staggering upward. "He was covered in tattoos. He was fed, I swear to you! He will become one of us."

"If he has not already," the older vampire responded, standing upright and returning to the crate. His claws traced the grain of the wood with a reverence others might have reserved for a loved one.

"The blood we have is not enough," he announced to the pack. "There is a town beyond the river which will do well to correct this mistake. We shall need every last drop if we are to reawaken our king."

His palm flattened against the wood surface, and he could swear he felt a stirring beneath, though it couldn't be true, not until they had enough blood, which would be very soon.

"Isn't that right, Adam?"

Smiling, Karel looked out at his pack, a mass of glittering eyes in the soft glow of the moon. His smile broadened until fangs emerged.

"In the meantime, I will teach the newest of you to deal with these pests."

*

Burke was soon granted a horse when the gang moved too slowly for Butch's tastes, which suited his men just fine. Though the band of criminals was on the move, those that hunted them were not the usual simple lawmen. Mundy's failed escape proved that much: horses were fast, but the dead proved to be faster. The Cavendish gang was on borrowed time.

Butch would have ideally rode on for a week, but the calamitous disaster which their job had swiftly become drained everyone of their strength to keep moving, including himself. A meager two days passed before the gang had to stop.

While the rest of the gang was fatigued by the journey, Burke felt nowhere near tired. He might have found the realization troubling were he not so distracted by thoughts of Cavendish. All through their pilgrimage over the prairies, Burke was forced to ride at the front of the fleet, no longer trusted at anyone's back. He had traveled next to Butch, yet the older outlaw never gave him a single look, nor even a word.

Now that he was one of these bloodsucking ghouls, the Irishman dejectedly surmised, Butch could not stand to even be near him.

He shook his head as he dismounted. Why the bloody hell was he actually feeling hurt by this?

Evening approached as the gang set up camp. The sunset bled a swath of crimson clouds across the sky, fading into the vast, dark bruise of violet in the East. All silently ate their dinner with the exception of Burke, who was in a self-imposed exile under Frank's watch.

"Those shit-suckin' bastards'll catch up, some point," Ray remarked dolefully as they ate. "What do we do 'til then?"

"Dynamite only lasts so long," Barret echoed their former ally's words. "And it's one thing to kill'em with silver. Spoons, a letter opener... not much in the artillery. If we're able, maybe we can take a little detour into a nearby down. Make some withdrawals."

"If they're hurt by silver, maybe other tools of the Lord will work," Jésus suggested, reaching under the neck of his shirt and pulling out a crucifix. It glinted in the light of the campfire as it dangled from the thin chain. "The cross... holy water..."

Alvirez smirked wickedly, nodding toward their quiet prisoner. "If so, we got somethin' to test them on."

"The hell you do."

All eyes at the small circle of outlaws turned to glance at Butch, who had been silent ever since the group had stopped to set up camp. He eyed Alvirez dangerously, his body tense like a feline about to pounce on a rat.

"We ain't got no crosses," he elaborated, working at some unseen object as with his knife as he sat. "And unless any of you boys are priests, we sure as hell don't have no holy water."

Burke was occupying his time by staring at a line of ants on the ground, wondering if his vampirism was improving his eyesight or if he was simply imagining such. Frank sidled up to him, tin plate in hand, cautiously holding out the platter of sausages as though to keep as much distance between himself and the Irishman.

"Ya hungry?"

 _Not really_ , Burke thought.

 _Not for food_ , he worried.

"Thank ye," he said, reaching for the plate.

"Oh, wait! Not that one." He grabbed a fork off of the meal, replacing it with another. "This one's mine." He attempted an innocent smile and held the utensil up as though to punctuate. "Silver."

Burke managed a small chuckle at the youth's expense. A fork was not much, but clearly Frank would take all the help he could get. Burke tapped at the cutlery on his plate, decided he was not about to burn himself, and proceeded to eat, though he had to force himself to swallow what he shoved into his mouth.

Frank remained four paces away, watching Burke eat. His throat worked like he was eager to say something, but afraid to speak all the same.

"Aren't ye scared I'll drain ye of all yer juices?" Burke asked slyly, leaning forward. Frank warily took a step back.

"A little. But..." he fiddled with the utensil in his hands, turning it over and over. "I keep thinkin' about how good you've been for the gang. And it wouldn't be fair not to help out someone Butch took such a likin' to."

Burke glanced up at him, eyebrow raised.

"A likin'?"

Frank shrugged, giving an awkward grin as an affirmative. "Ya make him happy, I think. Or... less angry."

The tattooed outlaw smiled, staring at the half-eaten meal in his plate. "Ye noticed, aye?"

Frank nodded.

"I gather the other lads noticed too?"

Frank nodded more eagerly. In fact he looked quite happy to confirm his friend's suspicions.

"And what do they think?" Burke removed a watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, absently checking the time. His reflection seemed to flicker in the glass, and for a moment he thought it disappeared entirely.

The fidgeting with the fork stopped as Frank considered how to answer.

"We think you bein' with'im ain't a bad thing," he replied carefully. He grinned again, thinking over some memory. "Makes'im easier to get along with."

A tattooed smile grew wide. "Hate to see how he is when I'm away." He paused. "No, I'd _love_ to see it."

Both men laughed for a few seconds until Burke doubled over, pain invading his senses. A sickness crept upwards through his throat, threatening to leave him as bile and half-chewed sausage. His hands instinctively went to either side of his head, as though to prevent it from blowing apart. The dull ache which suddenly possessed him filled every inch of his skull. Worse still was the unrelenting _sound_ , the only word he could use to describe the droning sensation surging in his brain.

He looked up at Frank only for a moment, seeing the alarm and confusion on his face and the way he brandished the silver fork. Then his vision blurred, and the sounds of the camp around him gave way to something else entirely.

Footsteps, belonging to thousands, stampeding over the ground. Voices hissing and snarling. Blood heavy on his tongue and in his nostrils. Though he did not move, he saw the prairie beneath him speed past as though he were running far faster than any horse. He was seeing through the eyes of another.

Suddenly a voice commanded the rush to stop, and the ground became still under Burke's feet. He turned to regard whomever had spoken, a thousand stars racing past that he realized were eyes, and his vision was filled by the horribly grim face of something that was not human, not for a long time, if it had ever been such. It looked right at him, predatory teeth gleaming... and smiled.

"Burke??"

Frank's alarmed voice brought his focus back to the encampment. The younger outlaw shivered where he stood, gripping the fork in both of his trembling hands. What remained of the meal was scattered in the dirt at Burke's feet. For a moment he thought he had bitten his tongue, for the smell and taste of blood was still strong in the back of his throat.

_Jesus, Mary and Joseph._

"They're coming!" he cried, jumping to his feet. The gang grabbed for their weapons at the sound of his outburst, taking aim as he hurried toward them. "I saw it, they're headed this way!"

His gaze fell on a nearby shotgun, but when he bolted toward it, Phin grabbed the weapon, aiming at the Irishman.

"Please, ye must believe me," Burke begged.

"How the hell do you know any of this?" Ray asked.

"I saw it," Burke repeated. "I saw what they could see, and what they're seeing is... I'm not sure what it was, but I _think_ it was one of them. I think it was their master. And they _are_ heading this way."

None of the gang moved from where they stood, uncertain of how to respond to the news.

"Do ye really want to stay any longer just to prove me wrong?" Burke snapped.

"If what you're sayin' is true," Barret said, "and you can see what they see... what's to stop them from doing the same with you?"

"We can't take him with us then!" Alvirez added, panic crawling into his voice. "He'll lead'em straight to us! We gotta get outta here!"

Barret turned to their leader, gun still trained on Burke. "Butch...?"

Once again, Butch did not look Burke's way. "Which direction were they headed?"

Mind racing, the Irish outlaw tried to remember. "The sky was darker to their right, so North."

"Then _we_ head Northeast," Butch ordered, taking little time to deliberate. "Git a move on!"

The band of criminals scrambled to pack up and depart. Burke turned to hurry for his own horse, but an arm shot out to block his path. Green eyes traveled up a sleeve until they met with blue.

"No, Burke."

Butch turned away from him as he strode to his horse and climbed into the saddle. He hated that pleading look on his friend's face. Burke wanted him to make exceptions here? When the inky bastard was turning into one of those parasites? He had some serious nerve.

"Wait!" A pale hand gripped at Butch's leg. "If I'm turning into one of them, maybe I can help ye fight them."

Jagged teeth worrying a split lip, Cavendish oversaw the progress of his men, which happened to be the opposite direction of his companion. The hand which gripped his leg squeezed the calf.

"I can protect ye!"

Butch sighed in exasperation, reaching into a holster. "Not if there's a chance they can read your mind. You won't do much protectin' then." Unsheathing a revolver, he pointed it down at Burke. "And if blood gets spilt - and you know it will - I'm not so sure you'll be able to keep your promise."

He flipped the gun on its trigger guard, directing the grip toward Burke. When the other man took the pistol offered to him, his rucksack was tossed to the ground in front of him, a bundle of dynamite still within.

"Stay put, y'hear?" Butch said, finally looking back at his friend. "If ya can, maybe throw'em off the trail."

Burke nodded, staring at the bag, his body feeling strangely numb.

"Try something for me," his friend added. "I carved a cross into each bullet."

They looked into one another's eyes for ten solid seconds, Burke looking into those of Butch for the simple fact that Butch looked into his. Reading the scarred man's expression was difficult, especially in the night, but Burke's vision was improving all the time. Something he had noticed about Butch long ago... he could be a terrifying man, and thus no one else likely picked up on it, but Burke had seen his fair share of terrifying people, and he had seen past the savagery and at times found the vaguest hint of sadness in those ghostly blue eyes. He saw that hint now and wondered if perhaps Butch thought this would be the last time either of them saw the other, unless the next time involved Cavendish having no choice but to put silver against him.

If this was goodbye, Burke would not part from him without a smile, though the one he managed to offer was small and sad. He reached for Butch's leg one more time, fingertips lightly touching the knee.

"Hah!" Bucking his spurs into his horse's sides, Butch steered his ride Northeast, the others joining him. Burke had not expected an actual ache to bloom within him as he watched the gang disappear into the horizon, eventually unseen in the darkness even by his own eyes. He clenched his grip around the revolver.

Now what?

Every handful of seconds, Burke would turn and nearly give chase, ready to catch up to the gang and show them he was not to be dismissed like some worthless nobody who meant nothing to them. He could likely outrun the damn horses now that he was becoming one of these monsters. With his tenacity, he reasoned he could likely even hold his own against a few of them.

Though not the hundreds he saw in that vision.

He thought back on the concept of Butch killing him, killing the creature he was becoming. Burke never wanted things to reach that point. If he was to face these bloodsuckers, could he withstand their attempts to lure him into the flock?

He gave himself a bitter laugh. Drawn into a flock of followers, complete with blood sacrament. He had not dealt with the nonsense of salvation and damnation since he was just a wee boy, stuck in a pew, forced to listen to all of the sour, rotten tripe. Would he have to endure the same from that ugly undead Lord Muck from his vision?

His thoughts dwelt on what he saw during that dreadful moment, when he thought the vibration would split his skull in two. He conjectured what it must have been like to live so long, to be so powerful. Was the uncomfortable droning there every moment, or was it exhilarating, a feeling a never ending freedom?

Would Butch share the same fate? Or would he fight 'til the end and get torn to pieces? Burke felt close to ill at the thought of becoming something that would do that to Butch without hesitation. For one of those living dead bastards to do the same, he would kill every last one of them.

But for now, he would buy him some time. Sitting next to the smoking remnants of the fire, he closed his eyes and opened his mind. Soon enough, that jarring sensation returned, filling the insides of his brain. At first he fought, tensing against the sound and the devastating flow of information, but resisting only made the discomfort worse, and he needed to make a connection with the pack. Burke took a deep breath, exhaled, and willed himself to relax.

Instantly the buzzing quieted, and the discomfort retracted its claws from his insides. The view of the monstrous pack racing along the landscape became clear and vivid in his mind as though he were truly the one running.

Good. This was good. With a connection in place, Burke concentrated on where he sat, thinking of Butch and his gang. He imagined them here with him, tried to make the most detailed picture in his mind.

 _Come and get us_ , he thought.

In his focus, he lost track of the time, but as he heard the approach of a thousand footsteps, he did not require a glance at his pocket watch. A dim light turned the sky in the East a deep blue, steadily growing paler. But the approaching sun left a glimmer in the gathering of eyes which flew toward him.

Burke rose to his feet as the crowd spread ever further, forming a circle around him which shrank and constricted, leaving him no chance of escape. He smiled, keeping his swagger.

"Alla ye great shite buckets and wee little me," he mused aloud to the mass of teeth and claws. "Seems poor odds for the likes of ye."


	8. The Devil's Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke confronts the pack and meets their leader.

Creatures formerly living and ordinary flanked Burke at all sides. Though their ghoulish transformations had taken from them their human qualities, many still had remnants of their former lives. Men, women, even a few children made up the pack, and Burke could see Indians among them. Like any sickness, the vampires did not discriminate when it came to spreading their unholy ruin.

Looking out at the aberrant crowd, the sea of fangs and claws and black veins, one demonic face was better recognized than the others: Sy Mundy. Burke did not find himself shocked by the discovery, though he was disheartened to see the son of a bitch had not taken much of an incentive to join his new gang's cause. The Irishman wondered if resisting the same temptation would be futile for him.

"How curious," a voice said above the crowd. The pack immediately split apart to reveal what must have been their leader, the severe facade which had had entered his mind hours ago and smiled at him. This time, the macabre smile was a little more reserved as the alpha creature looked at Burke with inquisitiveness. He looked as though he might be far older than the others... or more powerful. For all the bravery he had as the savage flock surrounded him, the outlaw was beginning to feel tiny hooks of dread snag at his insides.

"I thought I could sense someone was missing, but I didn't know who until now." Long fingers ending in talons stroked the head of a nearby vampire like a pet. Burke's hands tightened into fists for a few seconds until the nagging fear left him with a quiet exhale.

"Your former friends, where are they?"

Burke wondered whether a lie would be sniffed out by this undead bastard, but upon considering the question, he smirked. "Can't ye find them yerself?"

The alpha pursed his lips, hand tensing over the other vampire's scalp, but his smile quickly returned. "Fool me once..." He stepped forward from the crowd, and Burke stepped back in kind. "We were following the thoughts of a fledgling we had not yet collected. As it turned out, he was a naughty boy indeed."

The smirk turned into a grin. "That's me."

"We could use someone with your fire."

Burke laughed. "Ye don't know the half of it." He knew fully what the ancient bastard was doing; it was the same talk made by any man of God when he lured in his followers. This monstrosity's demands for blood were simply more literal, his face more truthful.

Gazing over the leader's face, Burke happened to notice a change in his expression. He winced and looked beyond the Irish outlaw, eyes narrowed to an annoyed squint. The rest of the pack was doing the same.

"Karel," one of the alpha's underlings hissed, anxiously pulling at the sleeve of his robe. The creature was dismissively waved away, despite the clear concern in the ghoulish leader's amber eyes. Burke was puzzled until he looked around for himself and realized how much brighter their surroundings had slowly become. He glanced over his shoulder at the dark blue of the sky, then back at the alpha, this Karel. Burke's mouth quirked in a tiny smile.

"Somethin' the matter, brother?"

Karel's smile became less and less friendly as his patience wore thin. "It's no great concern. A trifle. As we were discussing... you could be of great use to our flock. I see great potential in you. When you opened your mind to us, I could see it all: the ferocity, the resolve... you'll make the perfect bloodletter."

Burke scoffed. "Not better than ye though, I gather."

Karel's lips thinned nearly as much as his tolerance. "Take us to our rebellious prey."

"Can't ye follow them yerself?" the outlaw asked. "Or d'ye take umbrage with the sun?"

"A minor setback," the vampire snapped, then regained his composure. "But when Adam returns, we never shall again."

Burke cocked an eyebrow. Who the hell was Adam?

"That how it works, aye?"

Karel ignored the sarcasm and extended a clawed hand. "Please, my child. Help us and you'll see. It's beyond imagining. Your new life will be a world where you'll run free, with none to rule you."

 _None except you_ , Burke thought. _You and this Adam blighter, whoever he is..._

"You will not grow old, and you will not grow weak," the alpha monster continued, finding his smile again, though he continued to wince at the steadily approaching sunrise. "You yourself were audience to what little can be done to stop us. Join us. All you have to do is say yes."

To live that long, possibly even forever... Burke surveyed over the flock, and his eyes fell on Mundy. His former comrade grinned like a shark, clearly without qualms about what would unfold if Burke should refuse.

"What say you, sir?"

Burke looked up at the lead vampire's urging and finally replied.

"There's just something I want to know."

The speed at which he removed his borrowed revolver and fired was a surprise even to the unnatural beasts surrounding him. They might have retaliated had the shock of the bullet's effectiveness not frozen them on the spot. Mundy hit the ground face first, head sizzling. He had been struck dead in an instant. The pack stared in unison down at their recent addition, then all turned as one towards Burke, who glanced at his weapon, impressed.

"Aha," he said. "Question answered."

Karel expressed his confounded rage in an inhuman roar, sending two vampires after the Irishman. Stumbling backward, Burke shot one of them, felling yet another assailant. The hissing and howling crowd scattered wherever he pointed his gun, allowing him enough time to grab his rucksack and break away from the savage congregation. He shot behind him one more time before taking off into a full run, thanking his unfortunate transformation for his newfound speed.

Once he had covered some distance between himself and the creatures, Burke willed his mind into a blank slate. Though his thoughts persisted to return to pressing matters at hand, he knew one little mistake ruin all chances of escape. Knowing what he did of these creatures' hearty durability, he careened off of a rocky slope, landing into a thicket with a crash. There, he stayed still as physically possible, imagining overcast grey skies and brick walls, anything which might hide his whereabouts from the relentless ghouls. If he was able to block off the invasion of Karel's own mind into his, he might only need to worry about the pack catching sound or smell of him.

In the distance he heard the crowd stop. A feral shriek filled the air (Karel?) and the pack was on the move once more. Burke scarcely breathed as he heard them, feeling an ounce of relief when the commotion of the stampeding monsters faded.

Burke inclined his head, endeavoring to listen through the quiet, desperate to maintain that image of the grey skies. He waited, and even when he was certain he was alone, he waited more, until he finally moved. He looked down at the revolver still clenched in his hand. If only Butch knew that his little experiment had worked. Someone had to tell him.

Cavendish had given the direct order to stay put. But since when did an old shit-stirrer like Ruadhri Burke ever do what he was told? If he had the strength and speed of one of the undead, he could increase the gang's likelihood of survival. He could help, and he would. He only had to find them before Karel and his subordinates did.

Their tracks headed West, but not for long. Burke took flight Northeast, toward his fellow outlaws, and at the speed which he attained he nearly felt literally airborne. He hoped he was swift enough, though he clung to the reassurance brought on my his latest discoveries. If the sun really had these bastards bothered as much as it seemed, he had a very possible advantage... so long as he could withstand the light himself.

They had a chance at winning this battle. He just needed to find them first.

 _Please welcome me back_ , he thought.


	9. Showdown at Eventide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang confronts the enemy... and experiences an unexpected loss.

Butch's thoughts had been in turmoil ever since the gang abandoned Burke. Somehow he thought his friend's absence would clear his head, but he only felt worse. Sighing, he looked around him. Presently, he had led his men into a forest, as opposed to wandering the open plains in clear sight of the enemy, and yet he doubted his decision. The act of leaving Burke behind gnawed at him like a festering wound.

Regret was a god-awful feeling. For all Butch knew, bringing his companion with them could have helped when the ungodly creatures inevitably caught up with the gang. The look in desperate hazel eyes as he rode off from the campsite haunted him.

But what could he have done? Brought a bloodsucking beast into their midst? And if Burke suddenly had a change of heart within reach of the gang, little could be done to control him, short of perhaps a silver bullet through the skull

 _God damn it_. Burke had left a mark on him that could not be undone. He wished he could hate the bastard for it. He wondered if this was a sign of him going soft.

"I love ye." The words still echoed in his memories. It sent his blood surging hot inside him. He was not something to be loved, he was supposed to be feared.

Hot blood. He nearly laughed. Burke would probably have approved, what with the state he was presently in.

"We got company!"

Alvirez' alarmed voice wrenched Butch back to the present. All heads in the gang turned to where the Spaniard currently pointed his rifle. The keen predatory focus lost hours ago returned and sharpened Cavendish's senses, though a thought crossed his mind which had likely crossed those of his men: what good would bullets do now?

Within seconds of Alvirez' warning, the gang heard the loud crash of something - more than one? some of them wondered - hurtling through the woods. All men readied their own weapons, knowing they had nowhere to run now. Ray plucked a stick of dynamite from a satchel, cutting the fuse short in case they needed a quick explosion. Skinny had to hold his revolver in both hands to stop his shaking.

Then a voice called out Butch's name with a distinct Irish lilt. Some of the men lowered their guns, relief seemingly deflating them.

"God damn it, it's him," Phin stated, though whether he spoke out of reassurance or resentment was unknown.

"They're coming!" the gang heard Burke cry out beyond the trees. The guns still aimed for him were cocked. Butch furrowed his brow as he made up his mind on how to greet the green little bastard.

"Shit," he muttered.

Burke was brushing pine needles off of himself by the time he entered the gang's location. He was elated to find them, having felt so sure that even miles away he had picked up their scent. However, he knew that if he could smell them from such a distance, the pack would as well, and likely with much less trouble.

"It worked," he said breathlessly, ignoring the guns pointed at him. "The marked bullets worked. Ye have to believe me, because they're not far behind." He swept his hand towards the direction from which he came. "We may have some time, the sun is slowing them... but we have to decide something."

"What d'ya mean 'we'?" Jésus retorted, amongst those still aiming his pistol.

"What if you've just led them to us?" Ray added.

"I gave them the slip," Burke insisted. He turned to Butch, hoping his friend would see reason. "Please. The crosses worked."

He looked at Butch with pleading eyes as he spoke. Butch had half a mind to refuse and send the Irishman away just from those eyes alone. Yet if his experiment had been successful...

"Mark your bullets!" he barked his order to the gang. "Carve crosses in the tips. _Now_ , damn it!"

Though they obeyed without question, the gang's doubts toward Burke were obvious, based on their constant glances toward him. Burke could hardly blame them, were he in their position. Worse so, he had seen the ghouls up close for himself, and he suspected he would soon begin to look like them. He doubted he would last much longer once that happened, especially now that the men knew about the bullets. He wondered how long would it take for him to look like their leader.

"How much time we got?" Butch asked as he pulled out his knife and proceeded to alter his own ammunition.

"Only hours, I think," the Irish outlaw replied, watching the rest of the gang as he did the same. Some had thought to tie sticks together in twine to make their own little rudimentary crosses. "I wish I could promise they'll not come until nightfall, but they're determined bastards."

Their progress went on in silence, but in the corner of his eye, Burke noticed the way Butch continuously glanced toward him.

"What is it?"

"Your teeth," Butch explained.

His teeth? Burke winced, tasting blood as his tongue was pricked on canines which were steadily growing into fangs. Jesus. The silence they returned was even less comfortable than before.

This time Burke was the one to steal glances. As he watched his companion's progress, he noted the veins on the back of Butch's hands, the visibility of them under the skin. The sight drew his vision toward Cavendish's neck, where long, brown hair had covered it. For less than a second, his throat was exposed, and in that fleeting moment, Burke was so certain that he could _hear_ the blood pumping through the jugular vein. He had to concentrate not to drop the bullets in his hands, for they trembled so badly.

"I've a favor to ask ye," he finally said. Butch did not look his way, his expression a blank slate. The older outlaw's suspicion of the favor was clear.

"You want me to spare you," he stated. "When all of this is over, if we're still"--

"When all this is over," Burke echoed as he interrupted, "I want ye to kill me."

Brow knitted, Butch looked back at him. Evidently he had presumed the direction of the request, but not the exact details. His expression was one of confusion, but something else lingered in his eyes. Something terribly unhappy.

"Butch."

Both turned at Barret's voice, watching him hurry toward them.

"Frank scouted up ahead," he announced.

Butch tilted an eyebrow, impatient. "And?"

"There's a cliff leadin' to a river up ahead of us," Barret said, pointing behind him. "Waterfall an' all. Furious current in the river itself."

Butch glanced aside, considering the news, then looked again at Burke.

"These shit-bags don't fly, do they?"

Burke hoped not. Hell, the thought never crossed his mind, but he had never had dealings with vampires before, and for all he knew, they could turn into animals like the legends said. Though he feared the chance of opening his mind to the pack, he searched his memories.

"Not that I know of."

"If we toss'em off the cliff, we could aim for the rocks," Barret eagerly suggested. "Broken limbs, busted backs, they won't be able to climb back up."

Butch lifted his vision toward the sky, squinting at the noonday sun peeking through the clouds. In the overcast weather, the gang would have at least six hours before the enemy arrived, if the bloodsuckers were on their trail... and dusk would not be in their favor.

"We'll make our stand there," he declared. "We go down, we go down takin' most of 'em with us."

*

Burke remained unnaturally quiet at the cliff. Someone might have observed his peculiar silence aloud if the entire gang was not tense over the inevitable. Burke appreciated their lack of curiosity; keeping his mouth shut meant they would not notice his teeth.

The wait was torture, and yet the sun was setting far too soon for the gang to be ready for their assault. With a fire between them and the edge of the woods, the men loaded their guns and made certain they had their spur-of-the-moment talismans and silver pieces close at hand, for when their sanctified bullets ran out.

Their actions proved none too soon. What they first thought was the cry of a coyote became far longer and more shrill, and ended in a spiteful laugh. The gang put on brave faces, but Burke could hear the pace of their breathing, so much louder in his hears than it should have been. Curious, he concentrated and detected the pounding of their hearts, faint beyond the breaths but tellingly fast. Burke turned his head toward Butch, who was closest. His heartbeat, though heightened in its pace, was the slowest.

The howls grew in their intensity as the monsters came ever closer, and though their firearms trembled in their hands, none of the Cavendish gang stepped back or lost their resolve. Steeling their nerves, they waited to fire as their adversaries' footsteps approached, inhuman laughter echoing through the woods. What human eyes thought might have been flashes of bodies darting amongst the trees Burke's own honed senses knew for certain, a clear form of deliberate mockery, an attempt to toy with prey.

Then all went silent. Hammers were pulled back. In an instant, a shrieking devil of a thing came leaping from the forest, followed by an earsplitting blast.

The ghoul's chest exploded in gore and sparks. It dropped like a stone in midair, dead before it landed. In the disquieting silence which followed, the gang all turned to Frank, who gripped his fired rifle like it were his last prized possession. He wasted no time reloading.

Four more vampires leapt toward the gang, and in no time at all, the air was alive with the smell of gunpowder and the commotion of both inhuman roaring and fired munitions. Two of the creatures fell victim to fire and were easily shoved over the edge of the cliff, one of which hitting the rocks with a crunch.

A scream that was neither human or vampire rang out above the chaos. Burke turned to see at least two of the gang's horses set upon by the creatures. He could taste the animals' blood on the air and for a moment his vision blackened. A hunger enthralled him, a primordial urge to join the foes who had changed him and tear the unfortunate beasts apart. He nearly acted on impulse when a bullet zipped past him, just missing his ear but killing one of the horses instantly and scattering the ghouls. Jarred from his trance, Burke turned to see Ray, who proceeded to put the other mutilated horse out of its misery.

Glancing around him to ascertain the state of the battle, Burke brightened at the sight of more vampires being set ablaze and joined once again in the fight. The creatures seemed almost superstitiously fearful of the fire, but their most recent addition could care less about the risk it posed to him. The day Ruadhri Burke was afraid of fire would be a frigid day in hell. Grabbing a branch and igniting it, he swung his new weapon with a strength that nearly broke the blazing wood against his opponents. The glee which filled him in the fight slackened his self restraint, and he eagerly exploited his new strength and speed, bringing back the chances in the gang's favor.

Frank, with his rifle now empty and replaced by six-guns, held his own in a crowd of faces both human and monstrous. However, he had remained in one place too long, ever standing faced toward the border of the woods. So engrossed was he in assuring no other undead predators would leap from the trees that he had forgotten about watching his own back. Clawed hands grabbed him by the shoulders and tossed him face first into the dirt. Dazed but otherwise unhurt, he attempted to lift himself, only for a body to slam him against the ground a second time, the claws embedding themselves into his back. Crying out in pain, he turned his head to see the leering, rapacious face of his captor, her grin exposing needle teeth and her solitary right eye resembling a yellow candle flame embedded in a black pit. A ragged hole remained where her left eye once lay.

"I'll drag your body across the rocks until you're in three pieces," she hissed, smiling cruelly at the terror on his face.

Having happened to see the youth's attack, Butch looked at the ungodly bitch atop Frank and recognized her from the first assault against him and his gang, when the creatures had hauled Burke away and turned him into one of them.

Cavendish decided his course of action in less than a second. She was going to die and he would see to her fate personally. Almost reaching for the letter opener in his belt, he pulled out his knife instead. Her death would be slow.

Just as Frank expected to have his throat torn out, the vampire pinning him to the ground was shoved off of his prone body. Butch lost his hat as he rolled with the female ghoul, long hair whipping about his snarling face. He matched her ferocity, but each time he moved to stab or slice into her, her reflexes proved too fast and her strength greater than his own. They rolled again, and Butch felt no ground beneath him, realizing he had reached the edge of the cliff. He would have been another stain on the rocks had he not been clinging to his enemy. The vampire rolled away, taking him with her, and in the moment his back touched solid earth again, he took his chance. His knife sank into her neck. Blood spurted from the fresh wound, but the two-legged beast clutching him refused to let go. Yowling and spitting like a feral cat, she struggled against the blade's progress.

 _No you don't_ , Butch thought, steadfastly sawing away. _I'll keep cutting 'til I wrench your damn head off!_

As Burke further enjoyed the strength and speed his new identity provided him, he happened to glance toward Butch, far beyond the mess of flailing limbs, fired weapons, and hungry flames. Instinct drove him forward, shoving past the mêlée until he was close enough to tackle her. He was quick, but so was she, and she heard his steps despite the commotion. Just as the Irishman was about to attack, the vampire arose, bringing Cavendish with her and stepping back to the cliff's edge in a wordless threat. He stopped, watching the tip of a claw playfully drift against an unshaven throat. The claw pressed until it broke skin. Burke heard his lover's pulse as he watched a thin stream of blood trickle down Butch's neck.

"Come closer and we can share him," the female creature purred.

The hunger gripped Burke again, darkening his vision as he witnessed the fall of the tiny red river. His vision, which had penetrated the darkness, penetrated the skin. and he saw the intricate network of veins pumping beneath the flesh, so delicate and so very easy to reach with his sharpening teeth.

He shook his head, desperate to ignore the cramping in his gut, the god-awful instinct to tear his own lover and closest friend apart. He had to separate Butch from the leering monster clinging to him, but to come any closer could end in Butch's death, either from the demonic figure's teeth or Burke's own. He automatically looked at his friend, who looked back at him with an unexpected smile. Butch did not smile out of love - of course he wouldn't, Burke knew that - but the expression was still one of reassurance; a conspirator's smile.

And then he dug his heels into the dirt and pushed backwards, sending both him and the ghoul over the edge.

"No!" Burke heard himself cry, running to the precipice, arms out to grab a body which was no longer in front of him.

He took a single glance at the waterfall below to make his decision. He jumped without further thought, missing the rocks and plummeting into the torrents.

Seconds later, he gained purchase against a boulder and pulled himself above the water, the rapids beating against his back as he desperately looked around for Butch. But neither Cavendish or the monster he had brought with him were anywhere in sight.

"Butch! BUTCH!" his cries above the din of the violent river went unanswered. He strained to listen, sniffed the air, tried to detect any clue of his friend's whereabouts, but his enhanced senses brought him nothing. The only heartbeat he could hear was his own, a true shock because he thought for sure it had stopped.

For a handful of seconds he considered testing if vampires could die of drowning.

Soaking wet and bereft of anything resembling hope, Burke trudged back to the cliff side, climbing up and over the precipice. No vampires remained, only charred and shredded leftovers of their defeated carcasses. Instead, the Irish outlaw was met by an exhausted but still alive Cavendish gang, some looking just as despondent as he felt. Frank was holding their leader's hat, staring down at his fingers as he felt the frayed brim and nibbled at his bottom lip. Other men, however, were evidently enraged. Phin was the first to raise his gun, and likeminded others immediately followed his example.

"You've been trouble from the start," someone in the group announced.

"Did'ya suck him dry on the riverbank too?" Alvirez added.

"No. He's gone," Burke replied listlessly, and in that moment he did not think he would mind a cross-marked bullet between the eyes. "I couldn't find him."

"Only worms and flies are gonna find you once we're done..." Phin said, pulling back the hammer on his pistol.

"Wait."

Barret's voice was calm, and yet it garnered everyone's attention. His brow knit as he thought over the event which had occurred ever since the gang's journey had began.

"If there's no body... there's a chance Butch isn't dead." He glanced up at his fellow criminals. "Until there's a body, he's still alive."

He gathered his supplies, reloading his weapons as those aiming at Burke hesitantly lowered their firearms.

"But if we're gonna deal with these bastards, we oughtta move on," Barret continued, walking over to the remaining horses. "Find a town or a way station, 'shop' for supplies. I dunno about the rest of you, but I'm sick already of getting cornered all the damn time. We gotta hit'em back. Real hard."

"What about him?" Jésus asked, pointing at a still dejected Burke. Barret removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow before answering.

"He can see where they're headed. He comes with us." He mounted his horse, then added, "if he tries to bite, shoot him someplace that won't kill him."

"No need," Burke finally broke his silence, approaching an apprehensive Frank and plucking a fork from the youth's belt. As smoke rose from his burning hand, he tightened his grip long enough for all to see the instantaneous, searing damage. His breath came hard and heavy when he finally pocketed the silver utensil.

"Incentive to be a good boy," he uttered. Some of the men winced at the sight and smell of the unnaturally burnt flesh.

Barret urged the gang to hurry, and as all prepared to depart the awful site of carnage, Frank brought out a spool of rope, mumbling an apology as he bound Burke's wrists. Burke only held out his arms, playing the role of subservient prisoner while knowing how easy it would be to snap the restraints and escape. He did not care to escape. Despite what Barret had said, the Irishman could not believe Butch had a chance of surviving the fall from the cliff, let alone the river.

Due to shortage of mounts, some of the men rode in pairs, but Burke did not move to take a horse. He could easily follow on foot, no matter how fast the animals galloped, and he doubted anyone, even Frank, would allow him so close.

"C'mon, hoof it!" Phin demanded, jerking the other end of the rope. Burke's superior hearing caught the final muttered remark of "Goddamn dog-face turncoat..."

The gang took off, and Burke ran behind them with little effort. Hunger ruled him, but not nearly as much as despair. Butch was gone, and the Irishman was doomed to become one of these aberrations of nature for eternity. If he were to release himself from his bonds, it would likely be in order to grab his own gun and pull the trigger against his own head.

Yet Barret's suggestion echoed in his thoughts, and hope, however naive, managed to scrape its way through. He saw little promise in the future, but he wished the gang's new leader was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear... a cliffhanger involving a cliff. This is new.


	10. Bereavement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang finds a twisted safe haven, and Burke is imprisoned with only his grief to sustain him.

Karel's eyes narrowed as he witnessed the few survivors of his attack party limping back to him. His claws traced lightly along the grooves of the box where his beloved forbearer Adam lay within.

"Most impressive," he fumed, tensing his hand and leaving new furrows in the wooden surface.

He nodded to the hissing underlings eagerly waiting at his side, and they raced toward the survivors, ripping them apart before the wounded disappointments could even explain themselves. He watched the carnage for several seconds until the nervous whinnies of nearby horses alerted him. Turning to a stagecoach which tethered them, the alpha vampire studied his supply of ritual offerings within as he considered this insufferable group of rebellious humans. The jars were laden with blood, but not quite enough to achieve his plan.

"So close..." he murmured, staring up at the moon. She seemed to mock him with her gentle light, almost as much as the human gang and their transformed comrade mocked him by surviving his efforts to destroy them.

Perhaps the deaths of these little annoyances would be the absolute gift, the final contribution of blood which would bring Adam back.

If so, their upstart little tattooed protector would have to be dealt with.

*

The gang rode for the remainder of the night, with Burke close behind. He never slowed down, and he never got tired.

Though two horses had been killed by the creatures, Butch's own horse had been among the survivors. None of the gang wanted to impose ownership on the animal, but they thought of the possible outcome if Butch - if he were somehow still alive - found out his own mount had been demoted to role of pack mule. Jésus and Ray rode together on the beast, and Burke watched forlornly as the horse, black as smoke, passed him on their journey, coat shining in the morning sun.

Burke winced as the clouds cleared from the sun's path. He began to understand the pack's displeasure with the daylight. He was not hurt by the brightness or the heat, not really, but while others in the gang were unaffected, the tattooed outlaw felt stuck in something similar to a hangover. His eyes were suddenly too sensitive, and the glare of the day against every surface he glanced at hurt his head. He gazed at his etched arms and could see already that his Irish skin had gone red sooner than it would commonly color in the sun. This would only get worse, for both him and the bastards who turned him.

How slowly would he take to die once that light became fatal to him?

At the gathering of some boulders on a hill, the gang stopped for a short rest, not to mention get their bearings. Burke, immediately taking shelter in the shadow of the stones, denied any offers of water. He was certain that to even look at the others would reignite his unnatural hunger, which still crept in the base of his gut like a coiled snake.

"Well?" Barret asked, looking up the grade of the hill. Ray stood at the summit, peering through his spyglass at the surrounding vista.

"There's a little town two miles from here." Ray pointed Northwest, then added with some trepidation, "hard to see the details, but it don't seem like much goin' on."

Everyone within the gang feared the same outcome if they were to investigate. Their enemies could be hiding within the safety of the buildings. But they had few choices and water was running low. Night would not be falling for hours yet.

"Let's go," Barret ordered.

*

Ray's speculation of inactivity proved correct. Not a sound came from the settlement, and they were reminded of the unnatural silence of the land where their ill-fated acquisitions lay in a swamp of viscera.

"Can you tell if any of'em are nearby?" Barret asked, addressing Burke. The Irishman did not immediately realize he was being spoken to, too lost in his own despaired thoughts.

"I can try anyway," Burke finally replied. He lifted his face despite the sun and took a whiff of the air. "None here."

"What if yer just sayin' that?" Phin instantly responded, ever doubtful of the former human in their midst. But Barret would have no insubordination, especially not when the gang had greater worries.

"Quiet," he snapped. "We'll go in."

Guns at the ready, the gang rode into town, examining their surroundings. Most of the windows had been shattered. Familiar stains - those which had lost their crimson over time - began at the main road and painted the buildings and dirt in indiscriminate splatters fanning out from presently absent victims. Some of the blood reached the rooftops, claw marks indicating several of the unfortunate bastards were dragged upwards out of reach from any who could have helped them.

No bodies remained on the main street, and the gang doubted any were left behind in the buildings either: a ghost town crafted by the dead. The odor of scorched flesh and bone led them to the far end of town, where a small mountain of corpses lay to the gang's right, just beyond the last buildings. Far ahead of the end of town sat a church, inexplicably undamaged despite the destruction elsewhere.

"You'd think they would burn it down," Jésus remarked. "Sore sight for an enemy of the cross..."

"It'd mean they'd have to risk comin' near the fire itself," Barret answered. Taking Ray's spyglass, Barret surveyed the distant structure and a corner of his mouth twitched.

"Church is untouched. From the looks of it, all the blood stops a few paces before the gate."

"Some of the vampires musta been lyin' in wait," Ray surmised. "Headed folks off 'fore they could reach hallowed ground."

"Spread out," Barret commanded, returning the glass. "Look for silver and ammunition. Keep your eyes peeled. We don't need to make us any fewer while them bloodsuckers' numbers keep gettin' bigger."

Like deer exploring an open field, the gang slowly and skittishly investigated every building, each interior decorated with the same shattered glass and claret stains. In a town such as this, silver was about as common as upholstered furniture. Most local homes were either too simple or not wealthy enough, save for those of the most important citizens. One of which was the residence of one Eustace Shaw, marshal. The man's portrait, impressively mustachioed and standing next to his seated wife, sat framed on a table. Barret gave the photograph a once-over before showing it to a very languid Burke.

"Remember him from the pack?" the new gang leader asked, then raised a hand to interrupt Burke's response. "No, better not try to remember. For now, you just keep your brain closed off to them bloodsuckers a little longer." He almost rested his hand on Burke's shoulder in reassurance, hesitated, then pulled away. The other did not seem to notice.

The men gathered on the main road minutes later, their supplies collected and expressions grim. Anyone who resented Barret's self-promotion in the ranks - or his choice to keep Burke amongst them - did not speak their views on the matter.

Alvirez was the first to speak. "We're in luck. They didn't touch the silver."

"Too scared to even try handling it with gloves," another said. "Or too stupid."

Burke finally dragged his attention from his innermost thoughts to examine the collection on display in the main road. Most of the sources came from eating utensils, yet the gang had found a candlestick, several coins, even a jeweled necklace, much to their surprise. Barret was not pleased with the amount, but with a town this small with a church looming over it like God Himself...

Some luck God's followers had.

"It'll have to do," he muttered.

"Should we get movin'?" Frank asked. Barret looked around with some forethought, then made his decision.

"Burke keeps his thoughts off the pack, we'll be safe for now. They might not expect us to stick around in a place like this. It'll give us time to prepare. Speakin' of which..." he looked back at the open doors and smashed windows. "Use all the remaining daylight to mark the ammunition, make good use of the silver. Melt it down, poor it over all the other weapons you can find."

*

The gang worked during the remaining daylight hours to cross their bullets and melt down the silver amassed. As dusk began to give way to night, Barret approached Phin, who had completed his work earliest, and was now lounging on the deck of a general store. Barret waved in the direction of Burke, who was somberly carving away at his ammunition in the shade of a door awning.

"You can be the first to stand watch on him," he said.

"Bully for me, then," Phin grumbled, glowering at his charge.

When he was approached with the news, Burke had no mind to kick up a fuss despite the choice of guard. He was too busy considering touching the crosses he had carved onto his bullets, to test the effectiveness against his greying skin.

"C'mon, you," Barret said with a nod towards their destination, the slightest hint of good humor in his quiet command. Burke wished he could appreciate the lack of condescension. Barret was well aware of the reason behind the despondency of even a maniac like Burke. At the end of all things, he missed the horrible old bastard too.

Burke was led, hauling their absent leader's knapsack with him, to a building which held a room with only two ways in or out: a door and a window. As the crossed bullets had proven effective, all logic pointed to the same means working for the passageways. Studying Burke's slumped form and cold, unmoving expression, Barret wondered if the Irishman would even bother trying to escape. Leaning against the door frame, the newfound leader watched as Burke dully walked into the room and out of sight. He listened to the movement of Burke heavily sitting down, dropping the knapsack at his side, before speaking.

"I need ya to keep your mind open without tellin' them where we are... if that makes sense. Make sure to sense if they're comin', to warn us." He inclined his head to look closer, seeing only a pair of legs. "Can ya do that for us?"

"I can try," came the weary answer.

Barret nodded, though his reaction could not be seen by the other man, and straightened himself, stepping back. Staring at the door in contemplation as he closed it, Barret unsheathed a knife and carved a cross over the wood surface. He did the same at the window frame once he was outside.

Resting against the wall next to the window was Phin, arms crossed and face obstinate as usual.

"Keep an eye on him," Barret ordered, then paused before he walked off. "And I don't mean put a load'a holes in him."

He nearly continued leaving when Phin spoke up, his tone indignant and loud enough that Burke could have easily heard him.

"Ya got a lotta spirit," he noted. "Keepin' a paddy bent-boy animal in our midst and takin' over this gang like nothin's the matter. If Butch was around"--

Barret turned on his heel before the other man could go any further.

"If Butch was around, he'd tear your belly open with his own teeth and leave ya to those bloodsuckers for the sass spillin' outta your mouth," he snapped, shutting the man up. "And if he _is_ alive, God help you."

Though Phin did not look outright frightened, he remained silent, the vestiges of his impudent comments kept firmly to himself. He turned his head, spat at the dirt, and made no other complaints. Satisfied for now, Barret continued on his way.

He huffed a little at the present situation. Phinneas-goddamn-Hazelwood was becoming a problem, especially now that Butch was gone, possibly even dead. What would Butch do? They could not afford to lose any other men. Perhaps a light maiming? Rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to force away an ache deep beyond them, he retired to the sheriff's station.

"Get some rest," he advised the others on his way to the door. "Burke will try to keep'em away, but ya never know when they'll be comin'."

The men looked around at the town, at their unexpected, not at all reassuring base of operations. Perhaps their fear had affected their perception, but the stars seemed a little less bright in the sky. Gathering their weapons, the gang retreated to their bloodstained shelters, looking over their shoulders like the prey animals they had become.

At the window where Burke sat beyond, he could hear Phin's bitter voice.

"Just so's ya know, the moment you try anything, I'll shoot you right between the eyes." He was saying. "To the flames what Barret says. I wonder what bloodsuckers got to look forward to on the other side. Maybe it's worse'n hell..."

Burke ignored the smug idiot's rambling. Any other time would have had him cutting the goat-fucker's Achilles tendons or stuffing a dynamite stick in his arse. But present circumstances were radically different. In truth he hardly cared if this effort by the gang to defy the ghouls would end in his death, because every time he shut his eyes he saw the same death over and over again, of Butch disappearing over the cliff.

The one good thing in his life was gone. He had let Butch down. Just like he had let Aoife down. He thought back on his sister, corpselike despite her breathing and yet providing the boy with a smile every day of the winter of her life.

Maybe the wrong sibling had died, all those years ago.

In truth Burke was uncertain why he was still bothering to protect any of these people who remained. He was headed down a road of unending misery, short of one of these marked bullets or silver objects burning him from the inside out. Butch was dead, and Burke might as well have been too. If he did not make a choice, he would eventually give into his urges and join Karel's side. And if he did that, he would likely end up getting torched by one of Butch's gang. A fitting end to an explosives expert.

Attempts to sleep left Burke in a disorienting haze, wavering between dreams and consciousness. He felt sick and wondered which was the greater cause, the hunger or the distress. He considered asking for a pint of whiskey to numb himself, but doubted his vampirism would keep the liquor down.

Though he had survived decades feeling nothing for others but glee over their pain, he had made the agonizing mistake in his fondness for Butch Cavendish. Burke barely even managed to scoff at himself; he truly had to love Butch, for the proof that a hunger burned worse than that for blood in his stomach. His yearning for calloused hands to grip him, for the tickle of a nail to trace his "funny marks", caused a tightening in his chest. He wished he could hear that husky voice call him Firefly, just once more.

In his haze the outlaw lost track of time, but morning was still far and away when he reopened his eyes and gazed around his little offhand prison cell. Where his vision had become too susceptible in the light, it was ideal in the darkness. Glancing at the knapsack at his side, he concluded now was as good a time as any to inspect its contents. Now that Butch was gone, Burke might as well see what was left of him.

The contents were barely a surprise, the typical essentials of any outlaw's gear: more ammunition (marked with crosses just like the rest), an extra knife, jerky and dried fruit in case of a long ride without proper rations, a skin of water. He winced when his fingers were nicked by the barbed wire purchased by Butch at the start of their journey, only to watch his own wounds heal within seconds.

Then his hands made contact with something unknown, something solid and wrapped in cloth. Removing the small bundle, he stared at it for a few seconds before indulging his curiosity. Unwrapping the last of the cloth, his new eyesight seemed to make the shining surface of the harmonica in his hands glitter in the soft light of the moon. As he looked upon it, the painful, unseen grip on his heart squeezed tighter until he could no longer breathe.

Tears escaped him before he even realized his own weeping, and he pressed the gift to his chest as he doubled over, enveloped in his grief. Burke could not believe the pain which had taken over, an absolute anguish, the likes of which could not be described with such underwhelming, trivial words like sadness or melancholy. It hurt far worse than the demonic hunger for blood.

All his life, he refused the concerns and feelings which defined the humanity of others. Here, as he curled in on himself, holding the last piece of a man he knew he had rightly loved, he felt that horrible humanity... just when he had been claimed and turned into something else entirely.

His grief and exhaustion sent Burke to a thankfully dreamless sleep, and the next time he opened his eyes, a beam of sunlight had penetrated his cell window. If he could have actually cared to get up, he might have sought to test how easily his skin could burn under the light.

The hunger clawed at his insides, but he did not allow himself enough time to be tempted into seeking out prey. Searching his pockets, he found the silver fork and closed his hand over it in a trembling fist. The effect was instantaneous, and he listened to the sizzle of his skin, smelled the burnt flesh. It hurt and the burns began to spread beyond his fingers until he was sure if he held on any longer he would lose the hand entirely. It fell to the hardwood floor with a clatter, and he stared numbly at the ugly wheals and discolored, streaked skin. The wounds would likely heal soon, and when they did, he would dutifully pick up the fork again.

For now the pain was enough, both in his flesh and his heart.

*

As the sun rose and covered every inch of the land, Karel and his pack sought the shelter of a cave. The daylight was not yet lethal, but it impeded their progress. Several of their scouts had gone blind from the exposure to the sun, their eyesight returning at an unnervingly slow pace.

Clawed hand passing over his scalp and smoothing out his hair, he quietly sighed. The jars of their ritual offerings sat within the cavern out of the heat of the sun, but the pack's personal stores would not keep for much longer, and if they did not find new sacrifices soon, the pack would have to start over from the beginning. Adam would not appreciate such mortifying ineptitude.

Piercing yellow eyes closed, Karel silenced his mind, searching for any clue, however faint, of what to do, where to go... until he felt the faint, distant call of another. He grinned, recognizing that call. The Irishman who defied them may have been closing himself to the vampire alpha's mind, but the hunger could not be ignored, not for much longer. It was taking hold of him, and soon it would be strong enough to call out to his new brothers and sisters no matter how hard the unwilling recruit tried to suppress it.

At his side was the wooden crate, and he lifted the lid. Within lay the curled up, shriveled husk of a figure which looked more fetus than adult. Karel placed a gentle hand over the withered corpse, imagining a heartbeat beneath, one that would soon return with its possessor's rebirth.

"Soon, by brethren," he announced, closing the lid. "Soon we shall have the final benefactors to our offering, and our father will live again!"

The excitement of the pack emerged in hisses and demonic laughter, echoed through the endless subterranean tunnels. Hours remained between now and sunset, but Karel knew he would not have to wait much longer. Adam would not have to wait much longer. The hunger always won in the end. Their ritual would be complete, and little Irish firebrand would show them the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys. This one just got longer... and longer...


	11. The Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barret devises a cunning plan. The gang decides to act.

As the sun reached its high noon point, Burke was beginning to nod off again until unfamiliar images infiltrated his mind, images which did not seem like dreams. Realizing what they must have been, he jolted awake, desperate to will the images out of his brain. He focused on his grief, hoping it would be enough, until he remembered his other means of distraction. Scrambling for the fork at his side, he cried out as he closed his hand over the burning silver. If Karel and his parasites wanted to hear any messages from him, they would hear his pain. Hopefully they would feel it too.

The mouth organ lay on the floor at Burke's knees, so simple yet weighted so heavily with the source of his grief. When he finally let go of the fork, he gingerly lifted the harmonica and curled himself into as tight a ball as possible without harming his departed friend's gift. Mindful of his unnatural strength, he hoped to never damage the harmonica, though he doubted he would ever have the desire to so much as play it for the rest of his existence, however long that would be.

An hour later, Barret met with Jésus, who was standing watch outside the window of their prisoner's little room.

"How's the prisoner?" Barret inquired.

"Quiet," Jésus replied, then snorted to clear his nose. "Apart from a noise or two every now and then. I think he might be hurt."

Brow tilted in curiosity, Barret glanced inside. Burke, the ghoul in the making, was huddled in a corner of the nearest wall, out of the way of the sunlight with his back turned away from the window. At his side was a silver fork, slightly bent, littered with a hardened, dark crust.

Joining Jésus against the wall, Barret stood silently for half a minute before knocking on the broken window pane.

"Burke. What'cha been thinkin' of?" Remembering the Irishman's despondency, the other outlaw expected no response. Thankfully he was proven wrong.

"Butch," a broken voice answered.

Barret's expression softened. "Anythin' else?"

Burke rubbed his thumbs over the mouth organ's glossy surface. He hoped his reflection was fully gone by now, so that he did not have to see. But he could see. In the polished metal, his image flickered into view long enough for him to see black rings, spreading vein-like into the whites of his eyes and bordering the irises, which were remarkably yellower.

"How much I miss him," he finally replied. Before his reflection vanished entirely, he thought he saw something horrible in its place, something monstrous. Was it destined to be his true face when he had finally fully transformed?

Barret turned his neck and rested his head against the building's side, staring at the main road.

"... huh."

"Huh what?" Jésus responded.

"In a minute." Barret glanced back through the window. "You keep thinkin' about Butch, alright?"

No answer. Hopefully that was a yes.

"Get the rest of the boys," Barret instructed Jésus, who left to do so. Once he was alone with the miserable prisoner, the gang's new leader tapped the window pane again.

"Burke," he called softly. "You wanna come out and be a part of this?"

Again no spoken answer, but this time, a rustling of clothes signaled Burke's rise to his feet. With his back still turned to Barret, the Irish outlaw brushed some of the dust and wrinkles from his clothes and straightened with a slowness which suggested physical pain.

"If ye think ye can get me through the places ye carved crosses, be my guest to let me out."

 _Ah..._ Barret looked at the window frame and thought of the doorway and wondered what might happen if Burke was even dragged through. _Hadn't thought of that at the start._

"No hard feelin's," he said, lifting a hand and hesitating as it closed over the frame. "But I'll have my gun out all the same."

"Go ahead. It's no bother," Burke replied drearily.

Revolver aimed at the prisoner, Barret pried the plank of wood away. The newly recruited vampire slowly turned to face him, gaze averted and standing out of the path of the sunlight.

"I had made a request for Butch, before..." trailing off, he cleared his throat and started again. "I asked him to kill me, if we survived all of this."

Taking a step away from the window, Barret's finger tensed on the trigger. "You ain't gunna charge me and make me shoot, are ya?"

Burke gave a joyless laugh. "No. But ye understand why I mentioned it."

Stepping aside from the exit, Barret allowed his fellow outlaw to knock the remaining glass panes away and climb through the window. Shielding his vision from the light with his hand, Burke noticed Barret no longer aimed the revolver, hands resting at his sides.

"You helped Butch in sickness once," he stated. "You looked after him. I may not have always liked him, but I didn't have to. I respected him. And for a vicious old bastard, he cared a helluva lot about you. In fact, I think he thought the world'a you. So if we're still alive at the end of all this, then yes, I'll do what you ask."

Nodding in agreement, Burke finally looked at Barret's eyes. The Irishman's own eyes, the other man noticed, looked much like those of their undead enemies.

Less than five minutes later, Jésus had retrieved the rest of the gang, some of which had been keeping watch on the town's outskirts. The group joined in front of a tailor's place of business, and once again, Burke was sitting in the shade of the awning.

"I been thinkin'," Barret began. "These assholes ain't found us yet, even with Burke present, and I gather it's because he ain't been thinkin' about where we are. Last night seems to have proven that right. If he keeps doin' that, maybe we have enough time to get ready to kill'em, and not just pick off a few. It's high time we wiped these varmints out once and for all."

"But how?" someone objected in the crowd. It was Phin, of course, by whom Barret was still nettled.

"We still have Burke's nitrate and gunpowder. Also, Burke's found barbed wire. If we set this up just right, we can surprise'em. We know ways to kill'em, and I'd rather go down swingin' for their necks than hide like rats in a hole until they rip out our throats."

"Barret," Alvirez began with uncertainty, "I think we can all agree with you on that count. Thing is... it's still a lot of these things to fight. It's a hell of a lot."

On his last statement, the others nodded. The sound of a cleared throat brought everyone's attention to where Burke sat.

Even in the shadows, Burke's physical changes were visible to his still human fellows, more so as he stood and cautiously approached the edge of the shade. The red from the sun's brutality was gone, but he was beyond his fair Irish complexion now, any sense of color appearing to have been sapped from his flesh. Any color except for perhaps a sickly blue. Otherwise, his skin was going grey, like a corpse, and his expression nearly looked just as lifeless.

"Somethin' occurred to me, as I sat there, tryin' to keep the ghouls away." He did not look at the gang as he spoke, focusing instead on the unseen details of the palm of his hand. "Legends say that to kill one vampire undoes the curse it placed on anyone else it turned. Dunno just how true that is... If it's true, it'll likely save ye a world of trouble to kill this Karel lad, this leader of theirs. If not... I gather ye'll have one less in your gang to worry about in the end."

"How can we trust anythin' you say?" Phin asked.

Burke extended a hand into the sunlight, palm upward. Barret saw the ugly red furrows, the weeping blisters and deep scorched flesh, and he knew then what the hardened specks must have been on the silver fork.

"At this point, I could care less if ye killed me. But wouldn't it suit ye far better with a ghoul on yer own side?"

A grave silence passed, though it was broken by a slap, followed by a revolver dropping to the ground. The slap had been delivered by Frank to the other's hand, having noticed the gun had been secretly drawn and aimed at Burke. Phin might have indignantly asked for an explanation, had the younger outlaw not been glaring daggers at him.

"So..." Barret interjected. "What do we say? Do we spend the rest of our short, godforsaken lives runnin', or do we go down in a blaze of glory like men?"

The gang quietly considered his proposal, and they seemed to be warming to the idea until Skinny put forth a nervous yet valid point.

"What if Butch is one of them?"

Burke replied in Barret's stead.

"Then I guess ye have to kill us both," he stated matter-of-factly. He could have shown more concern describing how to clean laundry.

Barret folded his arms. "It's decided."

As Burke watched the gang devise traps from the explosives and the spools of barbed wire, he sank back into the shadows, examining the faint red of his skin after exposing his hand to the sun. Bursting into flame would likely be feasible in a matter of days.

"Burke."

He turned at the sound of Frank's voice, watching him timidly approach the deck. Biting the inside of his cheek, the younger man lifted his arms, presenting in his hands the black, wide-brimmed hat.

"I thought you might want this." He took a step forward, his hands moving into the shade. The gesture was not lost on Burke, nor was the fact that Frank still did not flinch or retreat when the Irishman approached and took the article of clothing.

Burke physically examined the wear and weathering of his beloved partner's hat, felt the fibers beneath his fingertips. He would keep it with the knapsack where the simple few belongings remained. What few possessions of Butch Cavendish suddenly seemed to matter so much more, now that he was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming soon (I hope), a better one than this (I think).


	12. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back.

For the agonizingly long seconds which left Butch suspended weightless between sleep and full consciousness, he thought himself stuck in some form of purgatory. Yet as soon as he wondered, he just as quickly realized he was alive. Were he dead, he figured he would not be feeling like fresh fiery hell throughout the entirety of his body.

Goddamn, he was alive! Each movement his bones made proved it, aching like the worst hangover made tenfold. As he moved to sit up, he heard voices that sounded as though he were underwater. _Still_ underwater... his brain tried to piece together why he had been in water in the first place, as well as where he was presently. He fought for a moment against a pair of hands, but found himself too dazed to keep up the struggle for long. Instead, he lay back and let his full awareness return in its own time.

"Easy now," he finally managed to understand from one of the voices above him. "You've had quite the journey."

Butch rubbed at his brow with his thumb and forefinger. The journey itself initially eluded his memories. Last thing he remembered... Christ, that's right. In less than a second, the memory of the fall returned like a bullet in his brain. That... had been real stupid. Butch cursed himself - as well as Burke - for his foolish efforts. For all he knew, Burke gave into temptation nonetheless and made a meal of the gang.

_Sentimental idiot..._

"Nathaniel, give him some tea," another voice, clear enough to recognize as female, advised as Cavendish got his bearings. Heavy eyelids opened to a fog and Butch had to blink several times to put his vision into focus. Smelling the cloying fragrance of the offered drink directly under his nose, he shoved the teacup aside, not caring about the mess. When he heard the clatter against a hardwood floor, he listlessly stared at the site of impact to whet his visual clarity.

The first voice, that of a man, spoke up once more, explaining the situation. "We found you waterlogged and washed up on a bank. Your traveling companion didn't fare quite so well."

Cavendish's focus sharpened to a razor's edge at the indication of a second body. The one-eyed creature, the one he took with him over the cliff, it had washed up to the riverbank with him? Sluggishly sitting up, he tried to speak - something, anything - but his voice only managed to crawl halfway up his throat before turning into an unimpressive croak.

"Don't fret none," the man referred to as Nathaniel assured him as he and the woman finally went from blurred figures to actual people. "That terrible thing, she's dead. We saw to that ourselves."

"And none too soon," the women added. "She nearly got away and told that monster where to find us. Not that it will guarantee our safety..."

"Calm yourself, Agnes," Nathaniel said, hand on her shoulder. "Karel won't find us here."

Sitting fully upright on what he realized was a sofa, Butch paused, considered what he heard, and made sure he had not been hearing things.

"You know about'em, then," he rasped, finally reclaiming his voice.

"Of course," Agnes replied. "They wiped out our entire town, all except the two of us. Some were even turned into their kind. The sheriff, the minister..." Her hand closed in a fist over her heart, wrinkling the bodice of her dress. "Our own daughter."

For a brief moment, her husband's grip on her shoulder tightened. The tea continued to seep into the wood.

"We've known about their existence long before they came here," the man added. "Even before Lincoln."

"What _about_ Lincoln?" Cavendish asked, noticing the deliberate gravity of the man's remark. The couple stared at him, then at each other, as though he were the world's biggest idiot.

"I gather you weren't aware of his efforts apart from the war...?" The other man remarked.

"Dunno, don't care," Butch muttered, "not when it comes to that gimpy bastard."

He caught the look of taken aback unease on the Nathaniel's face, though the wife managed not to show her discouragement.

"They've been here since the beginning of America itself," she explained to their guest. "Where civilization goes, they follow, like rats on a ship, spreading their numbers and their disease. They had their hands in everything, pulling the strings of their human puppets everywhere. Some of us decided enough was enough, including Lincoln."

Cavendish staggered to his feet, gaining his bearings and driving out the dizziness in his brain. As his back was turned to the couple, he glanced out the humble homestead's windows, one of which exposing the outskirts and church, the other the nearby town. As confirmed by the eerie quiet outside, they seemed to be the only people left in the area.

"Lincoln resolved to put an end to their invisible reign during the war. Some say he did, others say that his killing of their leader did little else but slow them."

"Didn't know the stork-lookin' sonuvabitch had it in 'im," their guest remarked. Before the others could respond, he asked: "If he killed their leader, who'r they takin' orders from now? This weasel, Karel?"

When neither replied, Butch turned back to the couple. Man and wife gave one another silent, telling looks before answering him. Butch quickly noticed his gun belt and weapons sitting on a small table near them. The letter opener was still there, but his carving knife was not.

Nathaniel was the one to speak up: "You seemed to know his name, we expected you to know all about him. He's from a later generation, much younger than Adam"--

"Adam?"

"Their leader since the beginning of the nation. Far older than Karel, though for an underling he's quite old as well."

Butch only grunted in affirmation. Near the windows was a small stove, a steaming kettle sitting on its surface. The sight drew him to glimpse back to the puddle of tea on the floor.

"Karel took hold as leader of the survivors after Lincoln killed his predecessor during the war," Nathaniel said, ignoring his guest's wandering. "We had hoped he was one of Adam's children, but he remained a vampire after his death."

"They change back, huh?" Butch responded, catching on. He continued to look around the room, careful to reveal nothing, though his mind stirred ardently. Perhaps there was hope for Burke yet.

"As long as they resist the urge to feed," Agnes countered. "If they don't take the blood of others, there's still a chance for redemption. But I wouldn't get your hopes up for any friends, if I were you. Most don't last long. Our Eliza..."

"How is it you know all this?" Butch interrupted.

Agnes stared at him sharply, jarred from her reminiscence. She hadn't enough time to even produce tears.

"We were part of a rebellion who supported humanity's freedom from their reign. When news came to us of Lincoln's victory, we rejoiced, believing the swarm would die out. But we were wrong. After Adam's fall, they spread out, desperate to increase their numbers once more."

"Why would they kill off a whole town?" Cavendish asked.

"We're not sure," the woman answered. "But word is... they're collecting blood for a ritual. Some of the rebellion have heard tell of a way to bring back a dead vampire, if they have his remains and enough blood. It would certainly explain their culling of so many people in one place."

"We could have run," Nathaniel interjected, "but we stayed behind, searching in the daylight hours for other survivors. After all, this is the last place he and his pack would think to look."

As he listened to the couple, Cavendish took the few steps needed to cross the parlor and as he scanned the room he became aware of several incriminating clues, the final of which being the framed photo on the mantle, depicting his two hosts... but no daughter.

"Perhaps with the help of someone such as yourself, we can stop them before their plan is seen through," the other man suggested none too subtly. "You look like you've seen your fair share of battles, you could be a great ally in the rebellion..."

"It's funny..." Butch remarked, stopping them before they could go any further. "You know so much about these bastards, how to kill that blood-suckin' bitch, and yet you don't have any silver."

The room grew quiet, so much so that Butch thought he could hear the movement of someone - or something - upstairs. He returned to the window next to the stove.

"Also..." He pulled aside the curtain far enough so that the distant church was within view of the couple. "For such a God-fearin' town, you don't have any crosses."

Within less than a second, the innocence in Nathaniel's expression faltered, revealing something dark, something ready to try and kill him for sensing their ruse. The corners of Butch's mouth twitched into a smile as he began to reach behind himself, his hosts doing the same. The building steam of the kettle reached a whistle.

"How 'bout that?" he mused.

His host drew a pistol, but the kettle flew from his hand before the bullet was fired, disturbing Nathaniel's aim. Butch dodged the shot, reveling in the scream of a man whose flesh had been scalded. His attention turned to Agnes, who was brandishing his stolen knife. Her slice through the air was determined, but only the air felt the cut. Butch backhanded her, loosening her grip, and retrieved his blade, slicing into her leg. Blood jetting from her wound, she fell just in time for Nathaniel to attack from behind. Spinning around, Butch sank his knife into cloth and flesh, agony forcing the air from Nathaniel's lungs.

Agnes was on Butch with a livid shriek, wrapping her limbs around him and trying to gouge out his eyes with her own fingernails. The attempt was in vain, as Cavendish threw himself backward against the wall. She let go in time with the clang of her skull against an iron skillet. Grabbing her husband's gun, he fired it into her heart for good measure.

Noting either host's inability to heal, he mused the good fortune that at least neither had been a vampire.

The third host wasted no time joining the skirmish. In a commotion of footsteps down the stairs, Butch reached for his belt, removing the letter opener just as the demon who joined him in the river flew through the doorway. Neck still healing from her past injury and intact eye blazing with fury, the ghoul charged at him, claws out and jaws wide open as though to bite his head clean off. Butch swung his weapon, striking the vampire's arm. She faltered, screeching in agony at the already deteriorating wound. The distraction gave Butch enough time to drive the silver into her back. It was enough; the wound in her neck gaped until her head fell from her body. A howl died pitiable on her shriveling lips.

Nathaniel was still alive on the other side of the room, bleeding heavily from a gash large enough to disembowel him should he attempt to stand. Seeing the blood enlivened Butch. The scent of it cleared his head utterly. As he approached the downed man, the swagger of his hips had returned full force. Nathaniel looked up at him in frightened anger.

"You can't stop what's coming," he warned. His resolve broke when he noticed Butch still held the carving knife. "Please... don't...?"

"Town looks like hell," Cavendish observed aloud. "Church don't. Not even burnt down. How'd the townsfolk not survive on the hallow ground?"

Nathaniel hesitated to answer until the light from outside glinted on the blade. "The other survivors, the ones that hid there... we led them out of the church, telling them it was safe."

Butch nodded, impressed. "Naughty, naughty... for not bein' a vampire, you sure act like one."

"Our kind was only trying to survive. Serving them is the only way you can't become their food. Think about it a little"--

"Think about it a little, and you'll see that I'm doin' ya a favor," Butch said, pocketing the letter opener as he stopped before his host. "If it weren't for me, your friends woulda double-crossed you eventually. But that ain't really the reason I'm gonna kill ya."

He knelt before the man, smiling as he cut open the other's shirt, taking his good sweet time in doing so.

"It's just been a damn long while since I had a myself a pick-me-up."

He thrust the knife into Nathaniel's body, leaning close enough that his face was inches from that of the dying man.

"And I could sure use one," he whispered, reaching in. Nathaniel went limp around his searching hand before the heart finally came loose. It glistened in his grasp, moving in one final beat before he bit into the dense muscle. Sweet... healthy...

As he finished, he rose to his feet, sucking the blood off his fingers. He smiled at the red stains stuck under his fingernails. It appeared that concerns over his going soft had been premature.

The meat settled, warm and heavy, calming the nagging growl in his gut. Only when he swallowed the first mouthful had he realized the intensity of his hunger. He wondered about Burke and the hunger he must have been facing, quite similar to Butch's own, yet far more veracious if previous encounters with the ghouls had been anything to go by. Had he given in to the urge to feed? Butch set the thought aside for now. Better to cross that bridge when he reached it. In the meantime, he had other matters to tend to.

These bloodsuckers really were like rats: seeing one meant countless others had to be nearby. His scuffle with the vampire and her human underlings hadn't exactly been discreet, and if more were nearby, they would come to investigate the commotion. Gazing out the window once more, he decided to head for the safety that was the church and considered with some amusement how strange it would be for a sinner like him to seek shelter in a house of God.

Eh, well... he had seen and done all too many things which defied normality already this week. _House of God it is. House of forgiveness._

Place of redemption. Vampires or not, both he and Burke were beyond saving. And wasn't it grand? It would be if they both made it out of this catastrophe alive.

After a quick search of the house and still finding no silver, Butch gathered up what little ammunition remained. Minding every step, every movement, he emerged from the house and made his way toward the church, the town lingering like the husk of a massive corpse beyond it. The grounds were encircled by a short, wrought-iron fence and held a small cemetery. Hiding in the courtyard, out of sight from anyone possibly still in the town, he examined the damage which came to a near abrupt stop around the boundaries of the property. The sight supported Nathaniel's explanation, anyway.

As he glanced beyond the gore-coated dirt surrounding the fence, he spied a figure making a mad dash across the main street, but said figure was too far away to identify as a survivor or one of the ghouls. If it were indeed one of Karel's pack (let alone one which had spotted him), at least Butch had some level of safety where he was hiding.

He could not stay there forever though. These shit-suckers were going to die, and stay dead. Butch inspected his stained hands, imagined what a vampire's heart would look like, how it would feel in his hold. His tongue searched out stray fragments of blood and muscle fibers between his teeth, and he savored the leftovers. Gun at the ready, he entered the church.

The place was empty, its thick walls deadening all sounds of the outside world. The jangling of spurs and impact of boots against the floor echoed through the space as Butch strode down the center aisle towards the altar. He never had liked the silence of churches, the pompous... enormity of them. The place made him wonder just how Burke, in his Irish upbringing, would have felt about the place, if places of worship calmed or irritated him. More likely the latter. Butch gazed up at Christ, carved in wood and hanging with a look on his face as though begging all who looked at him for sympathy, and smiled. He could not quite process how a sinner such as himself was able to combat the vampires with weapons pertaining to Christ. But then so many had killed in the lord's name before. Either the overblown bastard really didn't give a damn from up on his cloud who was doing the killing, or a little relentless bloodletting was what he truly wanted.

Who was the sinner now?

Beyond a basin used for baptism was a door that led to the church cellar, stocked with alcohol, candles... and weapons. The guns looked ruined by rust and wood rot, but the bullets seemed hardly touched, likely from the townsfolk realizing their ineffectiveness. What a shame Agnes and Nathaniel never revealed to their neighbors how to adapt. Among the paraphernalia on the cellar shelves, Butch discovered a trivet, which he brought upstairs to make a little fire for his silver.

Even with walls so thick, he reasoned that he would have been able to hear the snarls and screeches of his undead enemies if they were outside. Few, if any, had accompanied the one-eyed woman. Did she reach out to her pack leader before her death? Cavendish hoped so. Burke's mind had easily been intruded upon by Karel against his will, and to allow him in freely would grab his full attention in less than an instant. The moment the pack knew Butch was still alive and prepared to kill every single one them, they would turn on the spot and rush toward him as though the devil himself were nipping at their heels. Though he would be safe within the church, the attack would need some time to prepare. After all, as vicious a bastard as he was, he was only one man. He was without his men, but he knew how to fight alone.

 _Give me everything you've got, little rats,_ he thought as he began to carve crosses into bullets as he waited for the letter opener to melt.

He would be ready. The vampires would not. A surprise would be awaiting them, courtesy of a true Quantrill raider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS - The views and opinions of one Butch Cavendish concerning Abraham Lincoln do not necessarily reflect those of the author. He's kind of a dick like that.


	13. The Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke continues to mope as the trap is prepared. The gang discovers the aftermath of a peculiar scuffle.

Burke remained out of his prison for the duration of preparing their reunion with the vampires. As the day wore on and their work continued, the gang seemed more comfortable around him, but he speculated their trust was due to the sunlight. If he - by some chance -  decided to switch sides and attempt to eat one of them, they _might_ be able to use the worsening danger of the light to get out of his reach. If their reflexes were quick enough, anyway...

Barret was discussing the remaining duties among most of the gang when he turned at the sound of Ray's voice calling his name.

"Barret... you gotta come look at this." His expression was a stone slate, just as featureless and nearly just as grey.

The intensity of the daylight reduced Burke's hurried tagging along to an unimpressive scamper between the shady rooftops and awnings. The worst was the trek toward the outskirts, providing little to no shade, and once again his exposed areas of skin were uncomfortably red. Shielding his face he peered at the structure before them. Between the town and a distant church sat a modest home where the smell of blood enflamed Burke's senses long before he reached the grounds. Though he did not enter, he stayed within view of the others through a window.

Within stood Ray, Alvirez and Barret, surveying the aftermath of something which kept them silent for several moments. The angle of the sun allowed Burke to take only a glance before his eyes began to sting, but the glance was all he needed: three figures, one of which was human only in shape. Said figure was a desiccated shell, rust-red and looking as though it had been roasted. Giving into the sting, he ran to the shade of the front step, listening through the open door to his friends discussing the weird sight.

Barret stood over the less human corpse, considering its unambiguous state.

"Last survivors, we figure," Alvirez stated, nudging the women of the other two with his foot. "Some kinda scuffle, looks like they ended up killin' each other."

"Strange," Ray added. "Weren't no silver weapon we could see that did the trick."

"Maybe there was a fourth we ain't found yet," Barret finally said.

The latter corpses, indicated by their state of decay, were very much human, the man of which boasting a large wound in his belly, sloppy and deep. A familiar wound. All three men stared, uncertain to whether they should speak their shared suspicion.

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" Ray asked. Barret's brow knit at the center, and he shrugged.

"Dunno if it's even possible. In case it ain't true... best not hope for it. Did you find any weapons?"

Both of his comrades shook their heads. Barret sighed, knowing they had more pressing matters to attend.

"Well... don't go sharin' your suspicions. Especially not to Burke." If Butch really were somehow still alive, the possibility of his being one of the enemy was mighty distinct. "Let's head back to town."

Alvirez adjusted his hat, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Good idea. This place is givin' me the willies."

Despite their hushed voices, Burke could still hear what the others were saying, thanks to his improved senses. Their discretion was not lost on him either. He might have been crazy, but he was no idiot, as much as Butch would have said so. Butch, god blast it... Was he somehow still alive? Burke's present cynicism voted no.

_What if Barret hoped his former boss stayed dead?_

Damn it, this was the other side of him talking, the side which crept at the edges of his self-control. Despite his absence of hope and the pull of his encroaching vampire self, the shaky trust between the gang and himself still had to stand. After all, they were supposed to kill him at the end of this mess.

Removing his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow, Burke rested his head against the wall of the house, savoring the breeze against his face. The breeze had only gone by for less than a second before he detected the scent of blood brought his way. He might not have cared but for the fact that something was familiar amidst the blood, and he instinctively stood erect, tilting his head back, sniffing the air.

"Something wrong?" Barret asked him as he and his fellows exited the abode. At first Burke did not regard him, too fixated on the scent. Was that...? He looked toward the outskirts, scrutinizing the church, then scoffed at his foolish hope. Taking another breath to clear his nostrils, Burke lowered his head. Seeking out Butch Cavendish in a church, the very idea...

"No," he replied, listless. He still missed Butch too much; he was only imagining things. Resuming his unfortunate scurry under the smoldering sunlight, Burke joined Ray, Barret, and Alvirez to return back to the town.

*

Both ends of the main road hid two lines of dynamite, buried under less than half a foot of earth. Outside of these were the lines of barbed wire. Based on memory of how far the rotten cusses could leap, the gang arranged the barrier so that their enemy had no choice but to jump over and land directly onto the hidden explosives. Any injured attempting their escape would be stuck in the main road or else entangled in the wire. Burke found himself able to put the finishing touches to the trap with the assistance of Skinny sheltering him with a parasol. It helped, though not by much.

The sun's approach to the horizon dyed the sky a deep orange, fading into crimson. At the sound of footsteps, Burke turned to see Ray jogging toward him.

"Are we ready?" he asked. Burke scanned their surroundings and nodded, prompting the other to gesture down the road. "Then Barret says you should invite the overgrown leeches."

Nodding again, he glanced Northward to the church. In the air, the achingly familiar scent seemed to linger, but he reminded himself they were surrounded by bloodstains. The blood itself was only enlivening his hope, a memento of his doubt over Butch's fate. He was only imagining things.

Burke shook his head; he had more pressing matters to attend to. Shutting his eyes, he concentrated on the enemy, on the grim face of their devilish leader. The faintest, highest pitch of a ringing came stronger until he let out a breath, and all at once it struck his brain like a bullet. The pain from finally releasing his tenuous hold against the pack was only temporary, but even after it was gone, it was replaced by dread that clenched his guts and left his brain swimming. For a fraction of a second he could see the vision of the pack racing along the terrain, feel their pain at the new unkindness of the sun despite its retreat toward the horizon.

He could swear he heard the grind of their feet skidding to a halt. Losing his nerve, he withdrew.

"It's done," he flatly stated, staring at the ever reddening sky to ease his vertigo. Red. If he never saw the color red again, it would be too damn soon. At the sound of Ray shouting to the gang to prepare, Burke glanced his way, noticing a little too keenly how the other outlaw turned his neck. Just as he had days before, he studied the surface of the skin, noting each bead of sweat, watching the movement of sinew and veins, and certain he could hear the beating of Ray's heart.

He felt the leaping, giddy sensation of his own heart as he collided with Ray's form, arms encircling solid mass, nails scraping cloth and flesh, jaws opening and clamping over pulsing veins. The blood was gushing, so heavenly in its taste and warmth that he could never stop drinking, never be satisfied, never ever...

"Burke?"

Hearing Skinny's worried voice, Burke snapped out of his trance, thankful to see that he had not so much as taken a step toward Ray, who thankfully had not noticed anything awry. The stab of hunger had grown tenfold within the Irishman. Staring at the ground, too anxious to look at any of the gang, he reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around the fork. This time Ray did notice, hearing the sizzling of skin and the immediate groan of pain. He stared first at Burke's doubled over form, then at Skinny's bug-eyed reaction.

Barret approached the uncomfortable sight, his footsteps causing all three to look at him. Despite his near blank, weary expression, Burke's unnatural eyes wept at the pain of the silver. The gang's new leader was silent for a few seconds.

"Everyone should move to their places." Barret instructed. He shot Skinny a pointed look, nodding in Burke's direction. "Take him out of sight."

Vision blurry, Burke followed Skinny back to a doorway where he could hide at the start of the ambush. Whether he would go undetected initially or be found out at once was anyone's guess. Burke would have suspected the latter if the hunger and burning pain had a weaker grip on his thoughts. Breathing out slowly, he finally let go of the fork, pocketing it. He tried to ignore the fact that it was now bent, as well as the flakes of crust littering its once smooth surface. Despite the searing of his hand and the stab of his hunger, his brain felt numb.

What if he reached a point where the silver would not be enough? A mad Irishman made into a slavering, unholy animal... the notion of possibly becoming the most notorious blood drinker in American history would have amused him weeks ago, but now it brought him no joy whatsoever.

The two men remained at the door, silent as the distant church until Skinny finally spoke.

"If you don't mind a suggestion... maybe you should think of Butch."

Even hearing the name sent Burke's innards into a dive. Sinking into a seated position, he looked out at the main road and allowed himself a sad smile. He thought back on the prior night, on the agony which consumed his mind, and the memories blanketed the hunger.

"Aye," he said. "Maybe I should."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, look at me, coming back to a story as though I hadn't been lazing about and suffering from writer's block for freaking YEARS. I'm much better at keeping focus when I'm describing awful events or ridiculous smut. My apologies and I promise the wait for the next chapter won't be so long.


End file.
